Through The Eyes Of The Blind
by Captain-Cheesecake
Summary: In a tragic accident, Sherlock is blinded and must overcome the hardships of life and crime solving without his sight.
1. Chapter 1

**What would happen if the one thing Sherlock Holmes could rely upon suddenly stopped working? What if that 'one thing' happened to be what he used everyday? What if he couldn't work without it?**

**How would he survive?**

**Disclaimer: Every thing you see or recognize is not mine.**

**NOTICE: I have been going over this and I plan to update and fix a few problems I may have missed.  
****Thank you to those who have kept up with this!**

* * *

o0o0o0o

* * *

221 B Baker street was fairly quiet one cold Sunday afternoon until the gentle sound of violin music was interrupted by the harsh buzzing of a phone.

The detective, Sherlock Holmes, put down his violin and pulled the device out of his pocket.

_**1 new message  
**__**From: DI Lestrade**_

_**[** Front and center, ASAP. __Cab waiting outside.** ]**_

The detective smiled. He had a feeling that today was a case day. No more boring.

"John! Let's go!"

The doctor, John Watson, looked up from his crossword puzzle.

"Lestrade?" he guessed. Only so many things excited Sherlock, a murder being one.

Sherlock nodded as he pulled his scarf snugly around his neck.  
"Yes."

John stood to his feet, throwing his paper on the experiment covered table with the rest of the unfinished crosswords.  
"Let me get my coat."

Sherlock pulled on his gloves as John shrugged into his coat.

"What is it this time?" John asked as they made their way out the door and to the street where a taxi was waiting for them.

Sherlock was busy texting Lestrade.

_**[** We've got a bomb called in by a teenager.** ]**  
_

**_[ Strange. Did he plant the bomb? -SH ]  
_**

_**[** According to him, no. Come find out.** ]**  
_

**_[ On our way. -SH ]  
_**

"Bombing." Sherlock finally answered aloud.

John raised an eyebrow. Bombing. Odd.  
"Where?"

Sherlock shrugged and put his phone safely back in his pocket.

"Not sure."

* * *

They ended up going to some random house on a deserted street somewhere south of London. John looked around. Weird. Usually crowds of pedestrians and bystanders gathered around crimes scenes. Why were there no people around here? Also, there was no bombing wreckage nor sign of an explosion. Just police tape twenty yards from an old house.  
What was this?

"Where is everyone?" John asked, somehow feeling like it was a stupid question.

Sherlock pulled the edges of his leather gloves down.  
"Evacuated for their own safety.

John stopped dead in his tracks, five feet from the police tape that guarded the house in question.

"The bomb is still_ in _the house?"

Sherlock smiled innocently, as if John should have known.  
"Of course. What else would you have thought?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called, standing next to a very scared looking seven–no. Sixteen year old boy.

_Clothes: formal school-wear, muddy and wet. Been splashed within the hour. No rain here. Rain 20 miles up._

_Library card sticking out of his pocket._

Sherlock and John made it to Lestrade.

"Not our bomber." Sherlock smiled.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.  
"What?"

Sherlock pointed at the teenager.  
"Mr. Logan here is not our bomber."

The teenager raised an eyebrow as well.  
"H-How did you know my name? And what do you mean?" he asked Lestrade, "You thought I was the bomber?"

Sherlock sighed.  
"Don't worry. You are obviously innocent. You don't even live on this side of London. You were miles away when the bomb was planted approximately...two hours ago. You only came here to visit your grandmother, isn't that right? And then you heard something strange from the house adjacent to hers?"

"How do you know my grandmother lives over there?" he pointed to the house left to the one surrounded by police tape.

John shook his head.  
"Ok, explain Sherlock! I can't stand this!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Library card from a boarding school on the other side of London. Ergo; doesn't live here. Name on the card; Michael Logan. Obvious. Now, what would Mr. Logan be doing here on his weekend? You could obviously suspect he was in some sort of gang, but considering his well grooming and boarding school library card, I'd say not. Most gang members don't visit their local library. So that leaves us with the question; what was he doing here? Well, mister Logan's eyes have not left that house over there. Someone he knows lives there. Not a friend, but someone he truly loves. Mother and father are still together; a single parent would struggle to pay for his highly expensive tuition, so not visiting his parents. But judging by the empty oxygen tanks beside the house I'd say he was visiting his dying fraternal grandmother."

Lestrade, though confused, nodded in agreement.

"Good enough for me. You're free to go."

The speechless teenager gave Sherlock a strange look before running to the other side of the street and as far away from him as possible.

Johns mouth hung open in amazement, breath making small clouds in the air.

"You...you..._wow_." words seemed to have escaped him. Again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"You are doing that out loud again."

John shook his head and shut his mouth, coming back to reality.

"Sorry."

Sirens blared loudly as squad cars got in their way, letting out very heavily dressed officers carrying large equipment.  
The bomb squad.

Lestrade noticed Sherlock's fist tighten.

"Just let them do their job and then you can do yours, alright?"

Sherlock nodded and he and John backed away somewhat, John with his hands over his ears.

* * *

Bomb patrol officers entered the house slowly and carefully, wary and with a watchful eye for any signs of the supposed bomb. The usuals, Donovan and Anderson, had been replaced by the bomb control staff.

Sherlock and John had been pushed farther away from the house as to keep them safe. This aroused great annoyance from an already highly irritated Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled, tapping his hand against his side in impatience.

"Not fast enough," he growled, his deep baritone layered with heavy frustration, "The bomber is getting away! With every second it will be harder to find him."

John sighed, his voice patient and kind as to soothe his friend's irritation.  
"Just wait."

* * *

Nearly 2 freezing hours later the bomb squad found the explosive, carefully disarmed it and brought it in to the officials.

Finally, feeling as if they had waited for years instead of hours, Lestrade called them back over.

"Sherlock! I need you."

John and Sherlock ran under the police tape and stood beside Lestrade, only 7 feet from the house.

"It's safe now? You got it all?" John asked, more concerned for he and his friends welfare and safety while Sherlock just seemed to be itching to go inside and investigate.

Lestrade nodded and waved off some of the bomb squad, who were sure to not let them in.

"They've checked the rest of the house. Nothing in there. Go check it out yourself. I'm counting on you."

Sherlock stepped into the house and took off his leather gloves and replaced them with surgical rubber ones. He pulled out his pocket magnifying glass and looked around, breathing in the surroundings as if they were air.

_Hallway - Old carpet, covered in sawdust, era 1969, not taken out since house had been built. Nasty wooden plank walls, no drywall._

_Kitchen - Drywall in kitchen. Drywall replacement in kitchen + sawdust = Renovation._

"This place is over forty years old judging by the design and material used to make it. Previous owner tried remodeling."

He turned on the rather ugly kitchen water faucet. Nothing came out.

"Water has been cut off. Abandoned for some time. No takers."

He walked into living room, which appeared to be completely empty beside the strange pictures on the walls, connected by red yarn and blue strings.

_Photos include;_  
_Three different photos of a (Rather lovely) Stradivarius violin, Sunflowers, a woman with too much makeup, two different photos of a close up on an eye; Color, hazel green. The London eye, Big Ben, and a downtown London theater._

Sherlock stealthily took a picture of the wall with his phone and turned to leave when he noticed something; the floor dipped underneath him. He began jumping up and down, floorboards groaning in protest underneath his feet.

John noted his friends odd behavior.  
"What's up?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"This one place in the floor is hollow."

"What?" John asked, confused.

"It's hollow!" Sherlock repeated.

He put his ear to the floor and knocked on the wood.

"Start pulling these floorboards up!"

He, Lestrade and two other officers bent down and pried the floorboards from the floor, only resulting in a low concrete under-surface until, finally, Sherlock smiled as he found the right board.

And then the bomb exploded in his face, knocking him backward, flashing brightly in his eyes.

* * *

o0o0o0o

* * *

"...ohn?"

"Sher...ock?"

John sat up and looked at his surroundings. Lestrade and a few other officers were knocked back, but alright. Dust was floating in the air from the explosion, obstructing John's vision. His head pounded as he looked around the dust for his friend. Sherlock was lying on the ground, face up, blue eyes rolling back into his head, not breathing. John ran over to him and jostled him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, stay with me!"

Sherlock blinked and looked around, disoriented. His lungs struggled for air.

"I...cn't...ee" he wheezed.

John couldn't hear him over the ringing in his ears.  
Sherlock was coughing and blinking in the dust. John's medical training kicked in. He checked his friends face to find it was surprisingly unburned except for a few minor places on his cheeks. He was moving his legs about, so no spinal breakage. But he was obviously injured somehow. Head trauma? Internal bleeding?

"Where are you hurt?" he asked, panic slowly setting in to his supposedly unbreakable 'Doctor Mode' as Sherlock once called it.

"...ohn..I can...ee..." Sherlock was barely moving his lips, still recovering from having the air knocked out of his lungs. John still couldn't hear over the buzzing of his ears. He shook his head in attempt to focus as his hands help his friend find breath.

"Just breathe. Breathe and then talk." John whispered calmly.

"I can't see..." the detective finally spoke clearly.

John raised an eyebrow.  
"What do you mean?"

"_I can't see!_" Sherlock then screamed, feeling around the floor to try and get his footing.

John stopped him from standing.

"Don't get up, no! Stay here, Sherlock! Breathe! An ambulance is on the way!" Lestrade was on the phone as they spoke.

"I...I can't see..." the detective mumbled, dust from the explosion causing stinging salt water to leak from his eyes. Or at least that what he told himself.

John checked his friends wet pupils. Sure enough, they were dilated and unfocused.

"I can't see _anything_...John..._where are you_?"

"Calm down! I'm gonna stay with you. I won't leave. I promise."

Pulling off his friends surgical gloves, he took Sherlock's wrist and checked his pulse. Too fast. His lungs were working overtime as panic became inevitable. He carefully examined his torso, under each of his ribs to check for breaks. None. He didn't dare move his neck nor his back; they could still be injured somehow. He didn't know yet. He wasn't going to take his chances. His friends thin frame was shaking with cold and fear. Sherlock had never truly shown fear before. Not like this.

John kept mumbling under his breath, rubbing Sherlock's shoulder, trying to get his friend to relax and not hyperventilate in his disoriented fear.

"Calm down, Sherlock. You're alright. I'm right here. Breathe. That is all that is important right now. Just breathe."

Sherlock searched for his friends face with his hand, just to be sure he was there.  
John seemed to know what he was doing. He had seen countless other patients do it.

"It's me. I promise. I'm here."

"I...I can't see..."

"I know. It's okay. You're going to be alright-"

"Sir, get out of the way!" an unfamiliar voice was suddenly beside him as the wailing of an ambulance could be heard from out the front door.

"I'm staying with him!" he heard John's voice yell over the noise, one hand leaving Sherlock's shoulder to push away the paramedic.

"Sir, we need to get him out _now!_"

Something hard pushed against him and John, separating them from each other.

"Sherlock?" he heard John's voice fade away over the now blaring ambulance.

Suddenly hands were all over him; pressing him down when he tried to stand, picking him up off of the floor and onto some sort of hard plank that felt like a surf board. A gurney, he realized.  
He could feel the picking and poking of needles jabbed into his arm. He could hear the many voices of rushed ambulance paramedics talking to each other, but only one seemed to be talking to him directly. A young man by the sound of it.

"We are going to wheel you into the hospital. What's your name? Are you in any pain? Where?"

Sherlock waved a hand in the direction of the voice until he found something solid; a shirt collar. He pulled it forward.

"Where...Where's John?"

The paramedic seemed confused.  
"Don't worry about him. He's fine."

"_Where is he? John?_"

The paramedic lightly pressed against his chest, trying to keep him calm and down on the gurney.  
"Sir, don't shout! I will contact any family member you need. Can I get a name?"

Sherlock's breathing quickened as he continued his blind search for his flatmate in the ambulance.

"_Why isn't he here_?"

"I need a name, sir." the paramedic calmly asked, growing more impatient by the minute.

"John...John Watson." He gave him his number.

"I'll find him." the paramedic assured him.

He felt more poking and prodding at his body and heard the familiar beeping of a phone.

"John Watson?" the paramedics voice asked.

_'I'm sorry. I can't talk right now-'_

Sherlock could hear him now.  
"John? Where are you?"

John could hear his friends frantic screaming from over the phone. He knew who it was.

_'I'm in the ambulance directly behind his.'_

"He's behind us."

Sherlock tried to calm himself down, but it was too late; he began hyperventilating as he went into shock, body shaking violently against his will. They put a ventilator mask on his face.

His ears began ringing again and he heard no more.

* * *

"...er...ock!"

John. Definitely. It was John's voice who pulled him out of his trance. His breathing had evened out some now that the paramedics were in charge of his lungs. His heart still pounded frantically against his chest, his limbs still shaking uncontrollably and he was awfully light headed. He felt terribly weak, like he was about to black out again. Well..._Pass_ out. Everything was already black.

"John?" Sherlock asked, voice muffled by the ventilator on his face.

He could feel motion beneath his gurney and heard the sounds of feet scuffing against the floor; they were running him into the hospital. He could hear John gasp at the sight of him. He must look terrible.

"I'm right here. I'm not leaving this time." John's voice followed.

"I can't see..." the detective informed the doctor. It's all he knew to say right now.

John reached for his friend's shaking wrist with an iron grip, determined not to be separated by the paramedics again.

"I know, Sherlock. We're fixing that."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to all who have Favorited so far! You all are the best!**

**NOTICE; I am updating this and refreshing it.**

**Disclaimer: I still own nothing.**

* * *

"Are you alright?" John asked for the millionth time, yet again with no answer.

Sherlock's eyes were staring into space.

"Talk to me, Sherlock." John more asked than demanded.

Blackness. Darkness. Nothing. Absolute nothing. He couldn't see his own hand in front of his face.

"Sherlock..." John tried again, truly pleading this time.

Footsteps (_Large feet, size 11 = mans shoe - working sneaker = on his feet most of the day = Doctor_) walked in from the doorway and stopped at his bedside.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the voice of the footsteps asked.

He didn't answer.

"I'm doctor Andrew Linch..."

Still no reply came from Sherlock's mouth.

"I have your results here for you..."

John shifted awkwardly in his chair.  
"Just...read it off to him." he informed the doctor.

"Well...test show no signs of internal bleeding or broken-"

"Just tell me what you came to tell me and leave." Sherlock spat into the already tense air.

The doctor sighed, reluctant to give him the news.  
"There is a 70% chance that your eyesight will return over the next few weeks."

"And a 30% chance that it won't."

The doctor cleared his throat.  
"There is always that chance, yes. But you should have a fair recovery."

"How long will he be like this?" John asked worriedly.

Sherlock heard the movement of cloth from the doctors direction. A shrug.  
"A month perhaps...?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened and his hands clenched into fist.

John saw his friends discontent, stood to his feet and pulled the doctor aside in the hallway.  
"A month?" he whispered hoarsely, as for Sherlock not to overhear.

The doctor shrugged, rechecking his medical chart.  
"I'm sorry, sir. That's all I can give you."

John ran a hand through his hair and bit his lip.  
"What are his chances? Really? And don't sugarcoat it. I'm a doctor. I know how this works."

The doctor swallowed.  
"There's always a possibility that he won't recover at all. But that's_ only_ a possibility. Not the norm."

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. This wouldn't be enough.  
"Is there anything_ I_ can do?"

The doctor shrugged.  
"Make life as normal as possible for him. That will help him with the shock."

John shook his head as he looked back at Sherlock, who was staring off into space, eyes somewhat glassy and clouded. Life _WAS_ crime solving for Sherlock. Anything else was unimportant.

"I'll try. When will you let him out?"

"Tomorrow morning."

* * *

It must have been a horrid sight, being escorted by the police to your flat because you were blinded in a bombing. Every accidental bump of the long, red and white stick to the floor was soul crushing. How on earth was one supposed to use this blasted thing? And what of the sunglasses? He heard on the weather that the sun had not shown its face for two days. What good did they do? It didn't give him another pair of eyes. It didn't protect the ones he had now. He threw them away without any hesitation. Finally, the car ride was over. But the hard part has just begun.

_Stairs._ He had to be escorted up two flights of stairs just to get to his room. As if his condition wasn't ego-crushing already, John held on to his elbow for balance as he tried not stepping on his own feet.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." he mumbled as Sherlock stumbled forward, only catching himself by mere automatic reaction to put his hands down.

"I'm fine." He brushed off his suit.

Somehow they made it to the door, because John stopped and unlocked something in front of them.

It smelled like home. The aroma of tea and some sort of leftover experiment hung in the air. It sounded like home. As he walked, he could here the floorboards creak underneath him. It felt like home. He could feel the texture of the fabric on his favorite union jack pillow on the chair right beside the door where he had left it.  
But it wasn't right.

John circled around him.  
"You...want anything?"

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and remained silent.

John sighed.  
"I'll just make tea then."

Sherlock felt around for his surroundings. He should be standing next to a pile of books 4 feet from he doorway right in front of the wooden chair that held all of their mail. There should be a small table beside him on his left. Yes. He could feel it. He used that stupid cane to feel ahead of him for John's favorite chair. Yes. That was there too. A few feet ahead of that was his couch. He made sure there wasn't anything in his seat and sat down.

He heard John rustling about in the kitchen.  
"Milk and sugar?" he asked.

Sherlock threw his cane down.  
"Yes."

John must have been raising an eyebrow by the way he froze. The floorboards no longer creaked underneath his feet.

"Here you go." he walked over and handed him a mug. It stayed in front of Sherlock's face as he searched for it. John grabbed his hand and place the mug in his grasp.

"Thank you." Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

John walked four feet to the left and plopped in his own chair and the clicking noises began; he was blogging. Sherlock could actually tell him the words he was typing; the keys were so worn that each had a distinct sound.

There was a knock at the door that made him jump.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson's worried voice came from the doorway.

John stood to his feet and greeted her.  
"Mrs Hudson! Um...He wasn't expecting-"

"Why would I not expect my landlady to check in on me? Besides, you two haven't safety proofed the flat yet, remember?" Sherlock stood to his feet and felt around the floor for his blasted cane.  
John bent down and handed it to him.

"Here."

Sherlock sneered and sat back up.  
"Thank you."

He took it and slowly made his way around the coffee table and to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs Hudson put her hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes.  
"My Sherlock...What is he going to do?"

John sighed.  
"I don't know. I'm helping him as much as I can. He hates it. I can tell."

Mrs Hudson began cleaning the flat, making sure there was nothing to trip over.  
"I know. He's stubborn, that one. Hates being looked after. We can only do our best."

John bent down to help her.  
"Yes. I'm sorry you're having to help."

Mrs Hudson shook her head.  
"I don't mind, really. I'm always here for him. Oh...my Sherlock. He saved me. He's like the son I never had. You too hun'."

"You...never had any children?" John asked.

Mrs Hudson laughed and wiped the tears from her eyes.  
"No. Don't be sad for me dearie, I've got one now."

John raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to say to that. That was touching, but...Was she calling Sherlock a child? He acted as one most of the time, yes...but...?

"O...kay...?" he split the word in confusion.

"My gosh...he needs to stop bringing dead things home with him!" she hurried away from the fridge, face pale as a sheet.

John (thankful for the subject change) went to investigate.  
Sure enough, there was a...strange substance...in the refrigerator door.

"I've got it, Mrs Hudson! You can come back now!"

* * *

After Sherlock-proofing the flat, John and Mrs Hudson sat down for dinner at the table, Sherlock sulking on the couch. They tried once again to make small talk.

"So...um...how's the hip been treating you?" John asked, eying Sherlock's untouched sandwich in front of him on the coffee table. It's not that he couldn't see it. It's that he didn't want it.

Mrs Hudson shrugged.  
"Not as bad this week. Ran out of aspirin this morning though."

Sherlock rolled his cane back and forth in his fingers.  
"Don't try and make small talk just to please me."

John rolled his eyes.  
"Who says we're doing it for you?"

Of course he was doing it for him. For normality. But normally they would be halfway across London chasing a cab on foot. Not sitting at home discussing their landlady's arthritis.

"Please. I know I liar when I see..._hear_...one." Sherlock corrected himself with another pain-filled pout.

Mrs Hudson and John shared a look as Mrs Hudson stood and walked over to Sherlock, patting his knee.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I need to get going. I've got a bone to pick with one of my other tenants. Not keeping up with their rent. Bye boys!" she kissed Sherlock's forehead and ran a hand through his dark curls with motherly affection and made her way out the door.

John smiled as she left, grin then leaving his face when she shut the door behind her.

"You...gonna finish that?" John pointed to the sandwich in front of his friend before remembering he couldn't see his gesture.

Sherlock still seemed to understand.  
"Not hungry."

John sighed and picked up the plate and untouched sandwich, dumping it in the trash bin before putting the plate in the never-ending pile of dirty dishes.

"You gonna...shower or something? Change for bed?"

Sherlock thought it over.  
"Yes. I think I will."

He stood and walked around the coffee table, making his way in the general direction of the bathroom and the water started running.

John ran a hand through his blond hair and decided to take this advantage to change into his pajamas. He had some laundry to do, too. He did that as he waited for Sherlock to exit the bathroom so he could brush his teeth. He took some pain medication; his wounded shoulder has been acting up lately due to the rain. His phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the number.

**Holmes, Mycroft**

**Accept (-) Ignore**

He thought for a moment at which button he wanted to press.

**Accept**

"Hello?" he whispered into the receiver.

"How is he?" Mycroft's voice asked from the other end.  
No greeting. Straight to the point. Must really be worried about him.

John checked the bathroom door to make sure it was still shut.  
"He's...fine. Uninjured...for the most part. I think it hurt his ego more than anything."

Mycroft sighed.  
"That sounds like him..."

He sounded like he had something he wanted to say.

"Ok, what do you want?" John asked upfront, tired (both mentally and physically) of playing the Holmes brothers games.

Mycroft swallowed.  
"Is he...Is it a...?"

John heard the shower head stop. He needed to hurry.  
"I don't think so. But I'll watch over him just in case."

Mycroft sighed in relief.  
"Thank you. I'll check in later. This call never happened."

"None of your calls ever happen..."

The phone was already steadily beeping on the other end, indicating he had cut the connection. John threw his phone on the table and opened his laptop when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his nightclothes, sopping wet curls sticking to his head.

"You OK?" John asked as his friend stood blankly in the doorway. He mentally noted that he had forgotten his cane. He would scold him if he did it again.

Sherlock closed his eyes, water dripping from his hair down to his face.  
"I...I would like to be alone."

John nodded.  
"Just...let me get ready for bed and I will leave you to it." he shut his laptop and passed his friend to enter the bathroom and shut the door. He brushed his teeth and stopped to look at his face in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep in that horribly uncomfortable hospital chair. Sherlock had told him to come home and sleep. Naturally, he didn't listen. He splashed his face with water and exited, only to find that Sherlock had retired to his room for the night. Usually he would play his violin or sit on the couch and think. But not tonight. This was odd behaviour for his friend. Nothing ever phased him. So why won't he play his violin?


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you all for the comments and favorites! This means a lot to me!**

**ATTENTION; this has been re-written! Nothing big or plot related, just edited! If you have read this before, sorry for any confusion!**

**Disclaimer; Still not mine, no matter how much I wish it was.  
**

* * *

Sherlock rolled over in his bed, eyes still closed in his half-asleep state. He sighed. Sometime last night he had decided to sleep. Sleep was never comfortable; It was boring, dull, a waste of time. But mostly it was uncomfortable because his subconscious knew the darkness inside his lids would remain when he opened them. He rolled out of bed and ran his hands through his hair. He had fallen asleep with it sopping wet and it was sure to be wild about his head. Not that he cared about his appearance. Not today. He pulled on his dressing gown and walked to the living room when he froze. Someone was breathing loudly in here. A burglar? No. Not fast enough. A burglar would have adrenaline running through his veins, breathing almost two time faster than average. Besides, the breathing was far too familiar.

"John?"

He heard some rustling about as the breathing changed.

"Yeah. It's me."

John sat up from the couch, rubbing the crick out of his neck.

Sherlock relaxed some.  
"Did you sleep in here?"

John got up and stretched.  
"Yeah-OW!" he put a hand to his left shoulder.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"Why are you sleeping in here?"

John shrugged, rolling his left shoulder to loosen the tightened muscles.  
"Because you were asleep in your room and the kitchen table has all of your experiments on it and you've not vacuumed in a week."

Sherlock frowned.  
"You don't have to do that. Sleep in your room. Your hurting your wounded shoulder. I can hear it."

"Really Sherlock," John defended himself, "it's no different from my lumpy old mattress upstairs."

Sherlock clenched his hands into fists.  
"It is to _me_."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"What does that mean?"

"It means I don't need a babysitter."

"Fine. Then I won't be babysitting you. I just want to sleep on our couch. In our flat. That we share."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I. Don't. Need. A. Babysitter."

John was going to stand his ground. He could sleep out here if he wanted. He paid more than half the rent. But he decided he would save that fight for a later time.

"Whatever. I need to get ready for work."

He stood and brushed the wrinkles out of his nightclothes, still favoring his wounded left shoulder. He took some pain medication for that and made some toast.

"You hungry?" he offered Sherlock a piece of the brown toast, covered in a layer of jam.

Sherlock snarled.  
"No."

John put the toast down. He sat and ate in silence for a while when his phone buzzed quietly in his pocket. He pulled it out and put it to his ear.

"Hello?...Yes...you're speaking to him...Really?...Are you sure...Alright...Well...Thank you...Um...See you tomorrow...Thanks again...Goodbye."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, plopping down on the couch.  
"What was that?" he asked, uninterested.

John put his phone down on the table.  
"That was the clinic. They've got it covered. They told me I don't need to come in today."

Sherlock rested his legs on the coffee table.

"Oh joy." he mumbled. More babysitting. Just what he wanted.

John could practically read his mind.

"Don't worry. I'm not staying. I've still got errands to run. Milk and sugar, beans, tea...etcetera..."

Sherlock sighed and sank further into the couch and farther away from reality, as of that somehow healed his current state.

"You...want anything? I could pick it up...?"

Sherlock remained silent and curled his limbs tighter around himself.

John stood and made his way out the door and up the stairs.

"Ok then. See you in a little while."

* * *

**[How is he? -MH]**

John rolled his eyes and hit reply.

[_Same as ever; sitting at home, stubborn and mopey.]_

**[Well...if you ever have actual complications, do feel free to call. Or threaten to call. That tends to be an efficient motivational tool. -MH]**

John was just putting his phone in his pocket when he bumped into a cart of oranges, knocking nearly the whole pile over. He muttered harsh words under his breath and began picking them up.

"I hate this..." he mumbled.

Tesco employees were helping him now, cleaning the pile of oranges and chasing down the ones that rolled into the isles.

"Thanks..." John mumbled to the employees as he started rubbing his injured shoulder again. He was still tired from his fitful sleep on that couch last night.

"No problem."

John sighed and went back to his trolley, it being just as empty as it was when he arrived. He had been here for forty minutes now, just stalling going back home. He didn't want to go back to that mopey atmosphere. He couldn't stand to see his friend...sad. There was no other way to explain it. He was _sad_.

Still not satisfied with the amount of groceries in his trolley, he settled for these few items and made his way to the registers, minding the broken one that he once had a row with.

After yet another deadly fight with a chip and PIN machine, he finally made it out of Tesco's and got in a cab. Still not in a good mood but with nowhere left to go, he reluctantly went home. He stopped next door and gave Mrs. Hudson her half of the groceries and then hurried to the flat.

"Sherlock? It's me. Where are-"

He looked into the living room to find Sherlock and–oh, gosh. Here we go again–his brother Mycroft, sitting down in their seats, obviously in the midst of one of their feuds.

"Ah, John! I'm terribly sorry to intrude and I seem to be in your chair-"

"No. It's...fine." John sat down on the far end of the sofa, Sherlock on the other end.

Mycroft smiled.  
"Well...how do you feel?"

This question hung in the air, John not being certain who it was directed to. But seeing the way Sherlock stiffened, it seemed to be his turn to answer.

"I take it you are rather unwell then." Mycroft guessed, twirling his umbrella in his hands.

Sherlock frowned.  
"I'm fine."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, his brother unable to see his annoyed gesture.

"Given the dark circles under your eyes and your lack of grooming, I can only imagine you are are wonderfully giddy."

Sherlock was scowling now, hands clenched into fist. John couldn't help but wonder if he were imagining them wrapped around his brother throat. John, unable to give Sherlock a 'warning glance', touched his friends hand in warning instead.

"No fighting." he whispered, still aware that Mycroft would overhear.

Sherlock's jaw tightened.  
"I'm...fine." Sherlock forced the word out through clenched teeth. "Better if you leave."

Mycroft coated his bottom lip with saliva, annoying smile now gone from his face.

"I am only trying to help."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"Ok, I'm lost here. Help with what exactly?" he turned to Mycroft for the answer. So naturally, he was surprised when Sherlock spoke.

"My _dearest_ brother," he used the word with spite, "Has forced therapy on me."

Mycroft sighed.  
"Forced is a rather strong word, Sherlock. I would like to think of it as...the_ practical_ option."

Sherlock gripped his cane at his side, prepared to smack his brother across the face with it.

"I don't want anything you give me."

Mycroft laughed.  
"I am aware it is in the category of things you do not '_want'_. The matter is that it is something you _need_."

He shook his head and stood to his feet, walking over to shake John's hand before turning back to smile at his brother.

"Seven days, Sherlock. If you are not regaining any vision by then, my options are clear. Goodbye John. Farewell Sherlock. I do hope you recover."

John kindly walked Mycroft out of the flat and shut the door firmly behind him and sighed.

"Well...that was-"

"Nothing but another feud between my brother and I. Please do not get in the middle of it."

"Well, I was going to say_ interesting_...but..."

John poured some tea from the kettle into his favorite mug.

"It's not that bad. What he is offering-"

"I said don't get in the middle of it." Sherlock spat.

John sighed.  
"Therapy _can_ be helpful."

"You are as annoying as he is."  
Sherlock mumbled, his hands over his eyes, laying on the unoccupied couch.

"I'm just saying."

Sherlock rolled over on his side, away from John.

"Don't you have groceries to take care of?"

John rolled his eyes and grabbed the bags. He had already put the perishable items, like milk and butter, in the refrigerator. He put the boxes and tea in the cupboards and looked around for something to snack on. It was lunchtime and he was a bit peckish.

"You want me to make something? Toast? Tea?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John peeked over to find that he had left the room when his back was turned. Probably locked himself inside his room. Again. John sighed. If Sherlock didn't clean up his act, he felt he was about to put him through therapy himself.  
He plopped down in his chair an began blogging about these past few days.

* * *

He was scratching his ear six days later, trying to find something to write. Nothing interesting had happened in the days that have past. In fact, this was starting to worry him. Sherlock's vision was still at a steady 0% and showing no signs of improvement. It was still a bit early, but still not a good sign. Lestrade's case was moving slower than ever because of this.

Sherlock was throwing darts at the wall in boredom, John having hidden his handgun from him. Darts, it seemed, were the exception to firearms.

**Thud. Thud.**

"_Do you have to keep doing that?_" John snapped. He had been at it for nearly an hour and a half.

Sherlock threw his last one, tip landing directly in the eye of the smiley-face. Hmmm. He was still an excellent shot for a blind man.

"I am _dying_." Sherlock then plopped on the couch, hands over his eyes, limbs shaking.

John bit his lip. Sherlock was insanely over dramatic. But between not having a case, being utterly bored, and the fact that he was blind...John was worried about him. But he wasn't going to die.

"No, you're not. You just need to stop moping about. Do something. _Eat_ something." he begged. Sherlock had not ate nor drank in the past 24 hours in protest of his condition. He was looking pale.

"Not hungry." he insisted.

John could hear his stomach growl. He added pathological liar to his list of ailments.

John sighed.  
"If you're not going to eat, at least drink some tea."

Sherlock shook his head.  
"I don't want _tea_."

But his voice revealed more than just a refusal. It was a longing. A longing for a different substance. John knew what it was.

"No."

Sherlock growled, sounding more like an angry wounded animal than a thirty-five year old detective.

"Where are your nicotine patches?" John asked, knowing how well they helped in times like this.

Sherlock frowned.  
"Third drawer from the bottom. Dresser. My room." he mumbled unhappily.

John nodded and stood to his feet.  
"How many?" he asked, knowing from previous fights how he would wear more than one, no matter how much John protested.

"Five."

Johns jaw dropped.  
"_Five?_ No! The highest you've ever gone has been three! You are _NOT_ getting any higher than that unless you want to die _because I shot you_ or you want _me_ to die of a heart attack!"

Sherlock scowled in defeat.  
"Three."

John calmed his breathing and went into Sherlock's room, rummaging about in his dresser drawers (_noticing how empty they were. Did Sherlock not care enough to wash clothes?_) and grabbing the box of nicotine patches in the back. He pulled some out and stood to his feet, walking back into the living room where Sherlock was sitting upright.

"Here," John placed the patches on Sherlock's lap, "Have fun overdosing."

Sherlock grinned slightly as he unbuttoned his sleeve, exposing his forearm, which was covered in oddly shaped scars. They were barely visible. They looked ages old, as if they had been there from his teenage years. John gasped when he realized what they were; needle injection scars.

"I do not fear overdosing on mere nicotine, John."

He peeled the protective layer from the back of the patch and placed them on his pale skin, sighing immediately. The urge, the itching in the back of his head, the voices that called his name were not silenced but rather dimmed the moment the patch touched his arm. His head became clearer. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth as his cravings slowly diminished, his head becoming a calmer place, like a sea settled after a storm. He closed his eyelids and continued his breathing, resting his overexcited body.  
That's when the war started.  
He had not slept since the night he got home from the hospital and even that was only for a couple of hours. His human weaknesses were ganging up on him now. Laying here, relaxed, with patches on his arm...it was hard for him to admit to himself (let alone John or anybody else) that he was tired or in pain. But the last thing he wanted was sleep. And so he started fighting. Fighting the drowsiness, fighting the false sense of comfort, fighting the blackness that covered his eyes. But unfortunately, that battle was one he could not win.  
John was typing again on his laptop. He didn't know what anymore. He didn't care to listen for the patterned clicking of the keys. But it helped him win his war.  
And then there was a knock at the door.

"Boys?" Mrs. Hudson's voice entered the room.

John stood to his feet, clicking noises then dying away. Crap. How was he supposed to stay awake now? Oh, the pain was enough to keep him awake for now.

He heard the sound of plastic bags rustling about.

"I've got groceries for you." Mrs. Hudson informed John in the kitchen.

John cleared his throat.  
"Umm, thanks. You didn't have to do that-"

Mrs. Hudson laughed.  
"Oh, John...don't worry about it. It was nothing. Anything to help."

John grabbed the heavy groceries and sat them on the table, reaching inside his jeans for his wallet.

Mrs. Hudson stopped him.  
"No, Dearie. This one is on me."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"Are you sure?"

She nodded, smile on her face.  
"I insist."

John sighed. He could kiss her right now. As it was, she kissed him on the cheek, but it seemed to be an excuse for getting closer to his ear. She whispered, barely audible;

"If you ever need anything, just call. Day or night. Any hour."

John nodded.  
"Thank you."

She pulled away and smiled, patting John's shoulder.

"Bye boys. Feel better Sherlock." she called as she left, making withdrawal and temporary blindness sound like the common cold.

John sighed and looked around.  
"You mind if I shower?" he asked warily, not very keen on leaving him alone out here.

Sherlock swallowed, massaging the patches on his arm.  
"Go."

John couldn't tell if that was a '_Leave John. I'm glad to get rid of you_' answer or a '_I'm stubborn and I don't want to tell you this but please don't leave me alone_' answer.

He sighed.  
"Alright. Be out in a mo."

He went upstairs and got some clean night clothes and a towel as headed straight for the bathroom.

He started the water and waited for the pipes to get warm. He hated cold showers. They reminded him too much of his army days. He cranked up the scolding water as much as he could stand and let the water run across his back. The heat felt glorious on his left shoulder, loosening the tightened muscles and relaxing his entire body. He has been far too stressed these past few days. He sighed and washed his entire body and his hair, massaging his temples. He had a horrible stress headache. After all the hot water had run out he hopped out and dried, the sudden temperature change making him shiver. He looked at his face in the foggy mirror. His eyes were still rather bloodshot from lack of sleep. He reached into the cabinet for some pain medication for his head when he noticed the bottle was empty. He always kept four tablets in the emergency bottle so Sherlock wouldn't take more than the appropriate dosage or use them for experiments. They had been in here this morning. Where had they gone?

He quickly pulled on his shirt and went to his bedroom, looking through his dresser drawer for his hidden stash of ibuprofen. And there it was, in the same place he left it, completely untouched. He quickly replaced the missing ones in the bathroom bottle and went back downstairs to Sherlock, who was curled into the couch, still massaging the patches on his arm, eyes not closed but rather firmly shut, wrinkle in his forehead.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes tighter.

"You alright, mate?"

Sherlock wiggled closer to the cushions.  
"I am going to die."

John rolled his eyes.

"Still on that kick, then? You're not gonna die. The only way you are allowed to die is if I kill you."

Sherlock opened his eyes, lip pouting and quivering. He straightened out his back and laid on his stomach, arms sprawled across the couch. He mumbled something, something Watson had a difficult time hearing;

"...I'm in _pain_, John..."

John raised an eyebrow. This couldn't be real. Did Sherlock Holmes just admit to being in pain? He _NEVER_ did that. Wow. He must really be hurt then.

"When did it start?" he walked over and started rubbing his back, unsure of what else to do at the moment until he knew what was wrong. This is what he got for leaving him out here alone. He should have known better than that.

Sherlock sighed.  
"...All day..."

John rolled his eyes.  
"Why didn't you tell me?" he sighed.

Sherlock shrugged slightly.  
"I get headaches all the time, John." he reassured the doctor.

"It doesn't look like it's just a headache, Sherlock. What is wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head.  
"I took some medication an hour ago. It should kick in any minute now."

John sighed. Well, that explains the missing medicine. But he only takes two at a time. He must have taken more than one dose earlier this morning.

He stood and scratched his ear.  
"You're gonna be alright. Is there anything else wrong with you? Something I can help with? "

Sherlock buried his head further into the pillows, moaning something about his eyes.

His eyes...  
This might actually be a good sign. It was common for the temporarily blind to get headaches, especially when their vision was returning. He hoped that was what it was.

The doctor bent back down and continued rubbing his patients back in soft circles, waiting for inevitable slumber to overtake him. He hadn't slept in days. It wouldn't take too long if he just let his body relax.

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later the medication kicked in and his arms fell off of the couch and his mouth fell slack with a slight snore.

John stood, still rubbing circles in his friends back to make sure he stayed asleep. And then he began the initial examination. Skin is a bit warm. He's shaking pretty hard. Breathing back to normal now that he was asleep. Headache. Exhaustion.

All of this (hopefully) added up to returning vision.

John sat back against the coffee table and sighed with his head in his hands. He decided to let Sherlock sleep off the pain while he used his free time to do house work. He stood and went to Sherlock's room to get his dirty laundry when he sat down on the bed and again pressed his palms against his forehead. His headache was getting unbearable now. He had been so worried about Sherlock's that he had forgotten about his own. He laid back and put pressure on his eyes until he started seeing spots. And then the spots took over his vision and he sank deeper into the bed.

* * *

John yawned and stretched. He had forgotten what it felt like to sleep in a proper bed.  
_But this was not his bed._  
He sat up quickly and pulled a hand through his hair. Crap. He had fallen asleep in Sherlock's bed, practically forcing Sherlock to sleep on the couch all night. Some friend he was. He stood and went in Sherlock's closet to do the task he meant to do last night before his headache got the best of him. He walked out of Sherlock's room with a basket of clothes in his hands. Sherlock was still on the couch, no longer asleep but sitting up, peeling the old nicotine patches off of his arm as painlessly as possible.

He smiled.  
"Have a good nights sleep?"

John but his lip.  
"Sorry. I don't mean to kick you out of your room. Won't happen again."

Sherlock licked his cracked, pale lips.  
"I didn't notice. I don't mind."

John sighed and went to his room to collect more laundry. When he was done putting that in the wash he walked into the living room to find Sherlock standing over his open violin case, blank staring eyes looking down at the instrument as if longing to pick it up and play it.

"You gonna play?" John asked innocently.

Sherlock stroked the old wood longingly before shutting the case with a loud _BANG_.  
"No."

He unbuttoned his shirt and walked to his room before pulling it off and shutting his door. He forgot his cane. Again.

"Sherlock? What did I tell you about forgetting your cane?"

He stood and knocked on his door. It opened slightly.

"Where have you put my clothes?" Sherlock asked, his blind eyes looking right over John's head.

John shook his head.  
"You...you...those were dirty, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled a hand through his curls.  
"I need my clothes."

John sighed and entered his room to help him.  
"Have you checked your drawers? What happened to all your clean shirts?"

Sherlock shrugged and started pulling his hair out in frustration.  
"I can't tell what they look like by touching them. It's all just...fabric." he mumbled, sounding embarrassed. He hated having to have help just to find his clothes.

John looked around his drawers for a shirt, checking to make sure it was clean and not just shoved back in the drawer after being worn.

"Here." he handed it to him.

Sherlock sighed weakly, pulling the shirt over his arms. That's when John got his first good look at him since last night. His face was pale, his lips terribly cracked. Dark circles painted under his eyes. Dark curly hair matted into knots. Migraine symptoms on the rise. And he never played his violin anymore.

_Diagnosis:_

_Minor burns. Dehydration. Sleep deprivation. Migraines__. Nicotine addiction._

_Blind._

He decided to go with the easiest of ailments first.

"You hungry?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Risotto it is then."

* * *

John rubbed his eyes as he sat and stared at the blood-filled test tubes on his desk. Mrs. Hudson was watching Sherlock again, hopefully without his knowledge. If Sherlock found out about Mrs. Hudson's 'babysitting' John felt that he would pop a blood vessel in his forehead. He was already stressed as it is with Sherlock's headaches. They were constant now. He was still running tests on this patients blood when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled off his gloves and pulled the device out of his coat and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?" he asked, throwing his gloves in the bin and washing his hands.

"Hello John. How is work? Not too troubling I hope."

John sighed as he dried his hands.

"Mycroft...No, work's been fine. Not that busy. Um...why are you calling me?"

Mycroft sighed.  
"I am only calling to inform you that my appointed week is over and I have concluded my decision."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"Wha-Oh. Oh, yeah...um. I don't know...Wait, what do oh mean decision? I thought you were putting him in therapy...?"

Mycroft cleared his throat.  
"That was the idea I preferred. He refused, as you already know."

John nodded, sitting back in his chair at his desk.  
"What was the other option?"

Mycroft sighed exhaustedly .  
"I have given it some thought and I think I have decided from my many options-"

"'_Many options?'_"

"-And I have chosen the most simple one I could find."

John shifted in his chair, tapping his pencil against his desk in impatience.

"And what was your decision?"

"Braille."

John dropped his pencil.  
"You want Sherlock to learn to read Braille?"

Mycroft swallowed.  
"If it's not too much to ask. Definitely less expensive than therapy, rehab or medication. But only if you are willing to assist in convincing him it is for the better."

John nodded.  
"Yeah. I'll try."

* * *

Sherlock was in his room, most likely asleep. It was 3:00 in the morning and John had just gotten home from double shift at work. He had been dog tired this week, sleeping on the couch most nights. Needless to say it was not good for his shoulder. Dragging his feet across the floor with drowsiness, he made himself some tea and turned on the telly to some sort of cooking show Mrs. Hudson seemed to be watching earlier. He sat down and grabbed his laptop, considering blogging. He opened it to find it had been turned on and still on whatever tabs the previous user had opened.

The pictures, the ones from the bombed house, were on the screen. But according to Lestrade, most of those pictures had been lost in the...explosion. It still hurt to remember that day. Seeing his friend barely escape death, only to be alive but horribly wounded. All of his screaming still rung in his ears. The paramedics that pulled him away from his friend, literally grabbing him from behind him and pulling him into the other room. They were lucky he was worried about his friend. If he hadn't been searching for Sherlock, he would have punched them all in the face and then called his attorney and sued them for all they were worth. As it was, he did punch one. The one that got him from behind. But Sherlock wasn't going to know about that.  
But Sherlock...every time he closed his eyes he could see it.

Sherlock was paler than a sheet, gasping for air, tears and dust flowing from his eyes, which were glassy and unfocused. His body was seizing and convulsing as he screamed his name.

"_John!_"

John reached, but his arms were bound by the paramedics, his reach just falling short. The screaming didn't stop and it was the worst sound in the universe.

"_JOHN!_"

John was screaming too, but no sound came from his lips. The paramedics cover his mouth with their hands as he tried (and failed) to reach for his friend again.

"_JOHN!_"

The paramedics were attacking him now. Not holding him back, but attacking him, pushing and shoving and hitting his arms, all while Sherlock screamed his lungs off.

"_JOHN! JOHN, PLEASE!_"

John was practically wrestling the paramedics now, but he was losing. He just sat there struggling as they attacked him.

"_JOHN! JOHN, GET UP! PLEASE!_"

He couldn't hear anything but his cries for his name, but that was not enough to strengthen him. He was worn and beaten by the paramedics who were still abusing his body, shaking at his arms. One had a scalpel and jammed it right in his left shoulder. Blood was all around him, dripping from his shoulder, splattered on his face. His eyes slipped closed as he passed out...But he could still hear.

"John? Get up! Wake up, John."

He gasped as he opened his eyes.  
Sherlock was in front of him, shaking his arm, trying to wake him up. His wounded shoulder had fallen asleep and was now throbbing as blood returned to it's natural flow. John wiped the sweat off of his forehead and covered his eyes.

_Just a dream_, he told himself. _It was just a dream._

_But it wasn't_, another part of his brain whispered. _It was real. Just look in front of you. The evidence is sitting right in front of your face._

He opened his eyes again to see Sherlock dressed in his usual suit and purple shirt, eyes unfocused and unseeing, his cane in his hands.

_It was real. Your friend is blind._

John but his lip and focused on controlling his breathing.

"Sher...Sherlock? What are you doing?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"I can't see but I heard a noise. I thought it might have been a break-in. And then it sounded like you were having some sort of fit..." the sound of concern layered Sherlock's voice. Just slightly.

John shook his head.  
"No. No. I'm fine. I just..." he looked down at his lap. The laptop was still open to those pictures. Those haunting, fright inducing pictures. "...Had a nightmare."

Sherlock frowned.  
"Oh. Well...that explains everything."

He stood and brushed off his suit, cane in the crook of his arm.

John clicked off of the pictures on his laptop and quickly shut it. He tried to regulate his breathing; he was still getting over his nightmare.

"You...are you alright?" Sherlock asked as he sat down.

John nodded, taking deep breaths.  
"Yeah...I'll be fine."

Sherlock shifted awkwardly in his chair.  
"Do you...need to talk...?" he asked, the look on his face revealing this was something he was not comfortable with nor something he wanted to do.

John shook his head.  
"No. I'm fine now."

Sherlock nodded and cleared his  
throat.  
"Good." he said a little to quickly, obviously relieved.

John swallowed and looked down at his wrist, only to find he had taken off his watch.

"What time is it?" he yawned.

Sherlock licked his dry lips.  
"8:27 AM. Roughly."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"What do you mean 'roughly?' Didn't you check the cloc-Oh, crap...sorry...I'm sorry! I-"

How had he forgotten that Sherlock was blind? He had just had a nightmare about it!

"Oh, gosh-I am so sorry Sherlock. I am such a heartless-"

"It's...fine."

"-No, it's not fine. Oh gosh, why am I so stupid? I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I-"

"No really, John. It's fine."

John sighed and put his head in his hands.

"I'm...I'm sorry...I'm...I'm...I'm late for work!" he jumped up and dressed in a hurry, pulling an apple from the basket on the counter.

"I've got to go-I'm twenty minutes late!" he mumbled to himself as he slip his shoes on.

Sherlock just smiled.  
"No, actually you're not."

John looked over at him as he buttoned his shirt.  
"What?"

"The clinic called. You didn't answer your phone, but they left you a message. They don't need you today."

John sighed in relief.  
"Are you sure?"

Sherlock smiled.  
"Positive."

John sighed again, plopping back down on the couch.  
"Oh, gosh. Thanks mate. Hey, wait-hold on a second! Did you have my phone?"

Sherlock smiled, holding the phone out on the palm of his shaky hand, waiting for John to grab it.  
"Mine doesn't have auto correct."

John rolled his eyes and took the phone from his friend.  
"Yes it does. I know it does. Someone at work has your phone. Trust me. They've texted me and it has auto correct. Otherwise our secretary is just plain rude and is blaming it on her phone."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"I shut the auto correct off when I bought the phone."

John chuckled.  
"Sure. Because Sherlock Holmes _never_ misspells anything and doesn't need correction."

Sherlock smiled.  
"Someone finally realizes the truth." he mumbled sarcastically.

John laughed.  
"Who were you texting?"

"If my memory serves me right-which it always does-I texted Lestrade. Fourth name down on your contacts list."

John scrolled down his recent contacts list.

**(My Contacts)**

**Holmes, Sherlock)**  
**Mrs. Hudson)**  
**Holmes, Mycroft)**  
**DI Lestrade)**  
**Watson, Harry)**

"Why we're you texting Lestrade?"

Sherlock shifted in his seat, tapping his cane to the side of the chair.  
"Lestrade lost most of the pictures in the bombing. He knew I had them on my phone. I sent them to your phone and sent them to him."

John swallowed. That would explain the pictures on his laptop.

"Ok. Um...I've got medicine for your migraines..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted position in his chair again.  
"Wonderful." he mumbled.

John sighed and stood to his feet.  
"I'm going to make some breakfast. You need to eat something. What would you like?"

Sherlock licked his lips.  
"Just tea, thanks."

Sherlock's (freshly charged) phone buzzed. He pulled it out and handed it to John.  
"It's Lestrade."

John looked down at the number.  
"How did you know?"

Sherlock scoffed.  
"I can always tell when he needs help."

John opened the text.

**DI Lestrade**

**[John, I hope you get this. Don't read this off to him. But we found something important involving the bombing and the pictures and we need him. Scotland Yard. Immediately. Cop car outside in five minutes.]**

John sighed and hit reply.

_[I'll get him to come. Be there ASAP.]_

An instant reply message.

**[Thank you.]**

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"What does he want?"

John put Sherlock's phone in his pocket.  
"Um...He needs your help."

"With?"

John swallowed.  
"He...didn't tell me."

Sherlock scowled.  
"Then why should I go?"

John sighed.  
"Because...he said you're the only one who can help him. He needs you. And I need you to stop moping about."

Sherlock bit his lip as he thought it over. Should he put himself through this? Cause himself more anguish and embarrassment from his condition? Or suffer the consequences of feeling bored because he refused a case?

John could see the battle in his mind.  
"You don't have to if you don't want to." he sighed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"Me? Refuse a case? Please John. You can be so_ doubting_."

He smiled weakly and stood to his feet, walking to find his coat and scarf.

"Let's go."

* * *

**Please review!**

**AN/ I updated it because I was unhappy with the way it went last time. Sorry again for any confusion!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you all for comments, follows and favorites! It means a lot to me!**

**NOTICE; I have been re-editing this! Only minor problems have been changed! I have NOT changed anything plot related! If you've read this before, sorry for any confusion!**

**Disclaimer; Everything belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC or Arthur Conan Doyle.  
**

* * *

As the detective and the doctor walked through Scotland Yard they could hear DI Greg Lestrade talking loudly down the hall.

Sherlock sighed. This is what he missed, what he itched for. But in a way, he felt he wasn't fully here. Like he had left the most important part of himself at home without bothering to get it.

"Ah, Sherlock! There you are! Come in. I need you." Lestrade called them into the room at the end of the hallway.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, feeling somewhere between wanting to go home and wanting to stay here and work like normal. Mostly, he just wanted his sight back.

"You...summoned me?" he asked.

Lestrade nodded.  
"Yeah. We...I...needed you." he correct himself.

"Yes, I gathered. John said this was a matter of importance?"

Lestrade cleared his throat.  
"Yeah. Well...it involves the bomb house. I thought you would be interested..."

Sherlock's eyebrow raised, a small grin on the corners of his mouth.  
"You thought correctly." he sat down in a nearby chair, hands underneath his chin.

"What have we got?"

"Our previous owner has finally surfaced."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. This _was_ interesting.  
"Name?"

Lestrade pulled out some files and handed them to John.  
"Name's Agatha Garret. Age 57, widowed, two children, wasn't a very wealthy woman-"

"Apparently not. Did you see where she lived?" John asked.

Lestrade rolled his eyes.  
"Died of natural causes three years ago. House had been empty ever since."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"Obviously not. Those pictures on the wall were put up within that week. Someone had to have been there."

Lestrade sighed.  
"It could be anybody. Children sneaking in, gang house, drug house-"

"Okay, I'm not a cop or a druggie, but I don't think that gangs tend to leave pictures of instruments and foliage on their hideout walls." John interrupted.

Sherlock stared blankly.  
"I think John is right. There isn't any gang activity in that area anyway. Children would leave things behind. I think we are dealing with something else entirely."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.  
"Like what? Is this our pips bomber?"

Sherlock pushed his brows together and licked his lips.  
"I don't know."

John noticed Sherlock stiffen at the reminder of Moriarty at work.  
"You said you called us here for new clues in the pictures?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

Lestrade nodded, pushing an evidence bag across his desk, hitting Sherlock's elbow.  
"We did all the tests we could on these. Found some fingerprints on some of 'em. We've been Trying to find a match."

Sherlock picked up the bag and felt around for the pictures inside. Some were tattered and  
warped from the heat and proximity of the explosion.  
"Any luck, then?"

Lestrade sighed.  
"Not yet...but I was wondering what you thought of the photos themselves."

Sherlock shrugged.  
"Some are simple camera film photos, some of the pictures taken off of the Internet and printed onto photo style paper. I don't know what the order or the meaning of them yet."

"You remember what they look like, right? Do you need me to describe them to you?"

"No. I remember. Mostly. What else have you found concerning the-"

"Sir, have we got those files from the bridge crash case yet?" a slightly nasally voice asked from the door. "Wait, when did _he_ get here?"

Ah, the voice of Anderson. Annoying, idiotic Anderson. At least Sherlock couldn't see his face.  
Maybe this blind thing wasn't so bad after all.

"I thought you were recovering from an explosion?" Anderson asked sharply.

Sherlock smiled innocently, just to get on Anderson's nerves.  
"Yes. Yes I was."

"Than why are you here? We are _working!_"

"As am I. Lestrade needed me."

"Couldn't he just text you on your precious phone?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he looked up at Anderson, acting as if he could see, hiding his cane behind his chair as he stood.  
"Something is terribly wrong with my phone. Screens gone black. Can't see a thing."

Anderson sneered.  
"Then get a different phone! You always ask for others anyway!"

Sherlock laughed lightly.  
"Wouldn't help me much."

"What, are you blind or something? Where have you been all week? I swear...You're _useless!_"

John held onto Sherlock's arm to restrain him.

"Don't, Sherlock."

Sherlock sneered. He gripped his walking cane with all his strength, trying his best not to take a blind blow at Anderson. He didn't need his sight to punch Anderson's ugly oversized jaw. His breathing gave his position away anyway.  
Finally, he relaxed some.  
"You are not worth my time. John?"

He turned and scowled in the direction of Anderson's voice, putting his cane in front of him and grabbing John by the arm and dragging him along.

Sally Donovan raised an eyebrow at the sight of the cane as she walked past.  
"Since when has freak needed a cane?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and put his head in his hands.  
"Since he's gone blind."

Donovan laughed.  
"_The freak? Blind?_ C'mon. How do you know he's not faking it? He _is_ crazy after all."

Lestrade shook his head.  
"He got caught in the downtown explosion. Hit him right in the face. He is truly blind."

"And how long has he been that way?" Anderson asked snidely, uninterested.

"The explosion happened a week ago."

"Has he learned to read braille yet?" Donovan asked sharply, mockingly.

Lestrade put his hands on the table, causing both Donovan and Anderson to jump.

"_Look._ Blind man or not, Sherlock Holmes is _the best detective_ I know. _Better than you lot half the time_. You insult him _one more time_ and you will pay for it. _With your job_. Y'got that?"

Both Anderson and Donovan were taken aback by his scolding.

"Yes, sir." they said in unison.

Lestrade sighed and sat back down in his chair.  
"What are y'doing standing around here for? _Get back to work_!"

* * *

Sherlock stomped down the street, tugging John behind him in case of cars.

"Sherlock, slow down!" John shouted as he pulled Sherlock out of the way of a crazed taxi.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, turning around as if to look at his surroundings. Every concrete sidewalk felt the same with this stupid stick, mind the bumps on the edge of the street indicating moving traffic.

"Two streets away from the flat." John answered patiently.

"Name, John! Street name! You're useless!" he repeated Anderson's words of hate to his friend and almost immediately regretted them.

John (who knew better than to be insulted) shook his head and led him down the street. Sherlock couldn't do anything in this flustered state.

"Quit saying things because you're cross. C'mon."

John led Sherlock this time and the two of them finally made it to the flat.

Sherlock stumbled up the stairs and went to his room, slamming the door loudly behind him.

John sighed and tidied the room so Sherlock wouldn't trip. He could feel a 'Pacing Rant' coming on. Surprisingly, for the first time ever, the flat was mostly clean. And, just as expected, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom dressed in dirty night clothes.

"Is there anything in front of me?" he asked, throwing his cane down.

John sighed.  
"It would be easier to tell if you actually used the cane instead of abuse it."

Sherlock shook his head and walked six feet forward before turning back and walking the same six feet again.  
"I don't need it. I need to think."

John rolled his eyes.  
"Have you started taking your medication?"

Sherlock growled.  
"No."

John sighed.  
"Sherlock...you need to take your pills. It will help with your headaches-"

"Help? I get headaches all the time! Why do I need help? I'm not-"

"Handicapped? Sherlock, you can't see."

"_You think I don't realize that?_"

"Sherlock, I'm only trying to help."

"Just leave me alone."

Sherlock gave up his pacing and settled for laying on the couch.  
He closed his eyelids and put his hands under his chin. _This._ Now _this _was normal. This would be exactly what he would be doing if he could see. This is how he saw his world; with closed eyes.

This was time to think. Time to work.

_Why would someone bomb an abandoned house? Who would enter an empty house and use it as their work space? What were those pictures? He could see them in his mind._

_Why were they in pairs? The eyes, the violins, the sunflowers..._  
_Who was the woman? Was she important? Was she the intended victim? The previous owner? The bomber themselves?_  
_Why all the London landmarks? What did they mean?_

No answer came. He was too distracted. He knew that this darkness would bind him even with open eyes.

He flipped over on his side and turned away from John, who was sitting in his chair, blogging.

He could hear the words being typed on the keyboard;

**_Sherlock, though rather irritable with his condition, was making an effort to solve his case. He seems so unbreakable at all times it was strange to see him so distraught-_**

"I am not distraught." Sherlock mumbled into the pillow.

Johns typing stopped, eyebrow raised in wonder. How did he know what he was typing?  
"You...how do...?"

Sherlock scoffed.  
"I've listen to you blog for hours on end. Your typing is so loud I am surprised Mrs. Hudson doesn't know what you're blogging about."

John sighed and shut his laptop.  
"Alright. That's It. I'm getting ready for bed."

He stood and exited, leaving Sherlock alone to pout and complain to himself.

But then the footsteps walked back into the room.

"Y'know, I _try_, Sherlock. I _try_ to help you. Why you choose to push me farther away rather than_ accept my help_-"

"I don't want help."

"-_But you need it!_ That's what I'm talking about! You are so _stubborn!_ I don't understand you!"

John stormed out again muttering under his breath.

Sherlock mumbled something angrily.

John walked back into the room.  
"_What was that?_"

Sherlock closed his eyes.  
"Nothing."

John rolled his eyes and went upstairs and immediately sank into his bed without bothering to change clothes, hands covering his eyes. He covered himself with blankets and waited for sleep to overtake him but it never came. He was too busy worrying about Sherlock. Ugh...why did he have to be such a worrywart? He was _ANGRY_ with Sherlock! Sherlock was being unbelievably stubborn and insulting. _Why was he so worried about him?_ A little voice answered his question as he turned in his bed;

_Because he cared._

* * *

Sherlock tossed and turned in his bed that night, he too unable to sleep. He hated sleep anyway. Even more now than he did before. He pulled the covers over his head and flopped back and forth like a fish out of water, legs kicking and fighting the sheets. He opened his eyes to find that the darkness was no different with his lids closed. _UGH!_ He _HATED_ this! Why wouldn't it just _GO AWAY?_ And then he gasped as pain suddenly started to creep up his left eye and sit right behind it. He struggled on with his sheets as the pain grew at an alarming rate, and within a matter of minutes became excruciating. But he didn't want medicine. He didn't want anything to do with those tablets that John brought home. He just wanted this to end. He wanted his sight back. He stopped tossing in his bed when his stomach started churning, doing back flips in protest to movement. Great, now he was nauseous. It was definitely a migraine now. He _DESPISED _being nauseous. It was the worst feeling in the world. No, sensory deprivation was the worst feeling. But nausea was a close second. Unable to hold himself back, he gagged. Nothing else happened. He willed his stomach to stop trying to rid itself of acid and he sat back, hands over his eyes, putting pressure on his eyelids. He sat and waited for the pain to leave or subside or...anything. He just wanted this feeling–this empty, useless feeling–to go away.

Neither he nor John got any sleep that night.

* * *

John tiptoed downstairs the next morning, holding his breath and making no noise, hoping that Sherlock had somehow managed to fall asleep the previous night. But then he entered he saw Sherlock standing with his violin in his hands, feeling of the strings, plucking them like a ukulele to check if they were in tune. He put it against his shoulder as if he were going to play when his fingers froze as if he had suddenly forgotten how to. He threw the bow down with a clatter and put the violin back in the open case.

"You OK?"

Sherlock jumped slightly, looking around.  
"John?"

John raised an eyebrow. He had forgotten his stealthy entrance.  
"I thought you might have heard me."

Sherlock shook his head, shutting his violin case.  
"I was busy."

John swallowed, grabbing his military mug from the coffee table.  
"Yeah. I can see that."

Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and carefully sat in John's favorite chair, legs underneath him, perched like a bird on the seat, arms crossed. Gosh. Did he ever sit normally in a chair?

John walked into the kitchen to clean out his mug and put on the coffee maker (he needed something to help him stay awake), only to find that Sherlock's pain pills not been touched. John rolled his eyes and put them in the cabinet when he got his vitamins out. He swallowed his daily iron pill and brushed his teeth while he waited for the coffee to brew.

When he reentered he found Sherlock had been as still as a statue in his absence. But when he heard John's breathing enter the room he relaxed. He was acting as if he couldn't properly function without John.  
John stood when the coffee maker went off. He stayed in the kitchen for a moment to test his hypothesis. Sherlock ceased moving and sat silently from the moment John stood. Huh. Why was he acting so strangely?  
John walked back into the living room and Sherlock sighed.

"You alright?" John asked, handing Sherlock a mug. Black, two sugars.

Sherlock took the mug and held it with both hands, trying to warm his freezing fingers.  
"I'm fine. Thanks."

John raised an eyebrow in disbelief and opened today's paper.

**(Explosion in downtown London caused by gas leak)**

_**What was assumed to be the hit of yet another terrorist bombing is revealed to be a gas leak caused by the apartment stove-**_

John rolled his eyes. What a bunch of crap. At least Lestrade had gotten press off of their backs.

Sherlock sipped his coffee and cleared his throat.  
"Are you working today?"

John looked up.  
"Hmmm? Oh, no. I've got the next few days off. Why?"

Sherlock smiled.  
"Because I need you."

Sherlock stood and felt around to make his way to the kitchen table.

John sighed.  
"Why don't you use your cane? They wouldn't give it to you if they didn't want you to use it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"Can you help me with something?"

John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock Holmes ask for help? Pigs _definitely_ must be flying somewhere.

"Yeah. What do you need?" he stood and made his way to the kitchen.

"_YOU._ I need you to look at something for me."

John cleared his throat.  
"Um, Ok. Yeah...what would that be?"

Sherlock felt around the table for the evidence bag.  
"Tell me exactly what you see."

John looked down. He saw the pictures. The bomb house pictures, the ones he dreamt about the other day. But he knew Sherlock wanted more than that.

"Um...There is a eye. A woman's eye by the looks of it. It's brown-"

"Hazel." Sherlock corrected.

John scratched his ear.  
"Um...Ok. Hazel. Um...there's a picture of a building. The billboard is a bit warped so I don't know what it says-"

"'London Gem theatre.'"

"Uh...Alright. There are two different violins. Dark brown wood, probably-"

"1950's Stradivarius violin, maple, amber varnish."

"Are you sure you need me? Because it seems like you've got it covered."

Sherlock smiled.  
"Just...maximizing my visual memory."

John nodded.  
"Um...sunflowers? A vase of sunflowers. Very Van Gogh. Actually...very, _VERY_ Van Gogh-"

"It _IS _Van Gogh."

"Alright. And then some real sunflowers. Looks like it could be taken from someone's back yard."

Sherlock sighed.  
"Hmmm...probable."

John shrugged.  
"That's all I've got. The rest were lost in the explosion."

Sherlock nodded, resting his elbows on the table.  
"Yes. Well...thank you."

"Um...no problem."

Sherlock's eyes slipped closed and he rested his head in his hands.  
"Get my phone for me please." he mumbled into his hands.

John looked around the room for the device.  
"Where is it?"

Sherlock pointed.  
"In my coat pocket."

John stood and retrieved it, opening the lock screen and going directly to messaging.

**6 new messages, 6 new e-mails, 8 missed calls, 4 new voicemails from; Mycroft Holmes**

"Geez Louise, your brother has tried to contact you for an hour!"

Sherlock sank deeper into his hands.  
"Don't worry about that now. I need you to text Lestrade for me. Tell him-"

"Wait, hold on. Gotta find your contacts."

"Well, hurry up!"

"I'm trying!"

Sherlock's head snapped up.  
"_Hurry faster._"

John rolled his eyes.  
"Alright. What do you want me to text?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair, hands folded under his chin in his thinking prayer pose.  
"Ask him who is in forensics on the bomb house case. I need to know who I'm working with."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"OK...?"

**New Message  
****To; DI Lestrade**

**[Who is on forensics on the bomb house case? -SH]**

Two messages replied.

_[Anderson. Sorry.]_

"Anderson." John said aloud. Sherlock growled as John read the second message to himself silently.

_[Why? Is he planning on coming down here?]_

Lestrade must know it was John typing then.

**[I don't know. Maybe. -SH]**

_[He and Donovan will be on their best behaviour. We need Sherlock here.]_

"He said he will make sure they won't bother you."

Sherlock sighed.  
"They bother me no matter what. Let's go."

John smiled and went back to the phone.

**[He's on his way. -SH.]**

_[Thank you.]_

The rain had started to pour as they drove in the back of the taxi. John watched it fall in streams on the window while Sherlock stared into the empty space.  
John sighed and pulled Sherlock's phone out of the pocket of his jeans, checking the texts and e-mails from his brother.

**[John, make him answer his phone. -MH]**

**[John? -MH]**

**[Surely he has given you his phone by now? -MH]**

**[My patience is wearing thin, Sherlock. -MH]**

**[Answer your bloody phone. -MH]**

**[You cannot simply ignore me. -MH]**

**[John, please pick up. I need to speak to my brother. -MH]**

E-Mails are exactly the same as the texts. John went to his voicemails.

_'Hello Sherlock. Please answer your phone.'_

_'John, if you get this can you please hand the phone to my brother. He is being annoyingly stubborn.'_

_'Sherlock, I know you are there. Pick! Up!'_

_'Sherlock Holmes, answer your bloody phone!"_

John held back a laugh at the last one. Hearing Mycroft use Sherlock's full name was quite amusing. He acted like he was his mother rather than his brother.

"You may want to call Mycroft while you can. He seems to be very angry."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"What, the messages? Oh, that is not angry. You've not seen him properly angry."

"He sounded very angry."

"Not angry."

John rolled his eyes and found the reply button.

**[Will call back soon. He is in a good mood right now. -SH]**

He got an instant reply.

**[Well, I would not want spoil that. Call when you have free time. Thank you, John.**  
**-Mycroft Holmes]**

They exited the cab and entered Scotland Yard, John leading Sherlock by the hand at a run to escape the pouring rain. John notice Sherlock's pale cheeks were a slight pink. This whole situation must be so embarrassing for him. John quickly let go of his arm and wiped the rain from his coat.

"Let's go, eh?" he suggested as he walked down the hall where Lestrade was waiting.

Sherlock nodded and shook some of the water out of his curls, his face still tomato red.

When they found Lestrade, they could see he was in a good mood as well.  
"Sherlock? You made it! Alright, someone get him a chair! I need your advice on-"

"I'd rather stand."

"-What?"

"I said I don't want the chair. I would rather stand."

John cleared his throat.  
"By stand I think he means pace."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.  
"Oh. Well...alright."

He began moving chairs and scooting his desk somewhat to the side, giving Sherlock a wider strip of runway to walk.

Sherlock smiled in his general direction and felt around for the open space. He began walking back and forth in that spot, cane thrown into John's hands.

"Any new leads or thoughts on those pictures? Anything you have would help." Lestrade asked.

Sherlock folded his hands under his chin as he paced. He nodded.  
"Yes. I think whoever put them there was comparing something."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"How can you possibly compare identical eyes and London landmarks?"

Sherlock shrugged.  
"I don't know. But the landmark pictures...I had seen them before somewhere."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"What? Where?

Sherlock pulled at his curls.  
"The Internet. Somewhere. I don't remember-"

"_YOU_ don't remember?" John asked.

Sherlock pounded a fist full of his own curls against his head.  
"Yes, John. _I_ don't remember. I can't visualize it clearly enough. It was not important at the time. I deleted it. Some useless website you were looking at-"

"_I_ was looking at them?"

"Yes, but I don't remember why. I deleted that too."

John shrugged.  
"Well, I don't remember seeing them before in my life."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"Of course not."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.  
"Hold up-you've seen them before?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, pressing his palms against his face as he paced, faster now.  
"I believe I just said that."

John sighed, eying the way he rubbed his eyes.  
"You didn't take your medicine today, did you?"

Sherlock scoffed.  
"You picked up the bottle. You saw it was unopened and yet you still refuse to see the obvious."

John rolled his eyes.  
"Have you got any Paracetamol?" he asked Lestrade.

Lestrade opened a drawer on his desk and handed a bottle to John, the pills rattling as it flew I the air and landed in John's hands.

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock refused the fistful of pills John handed his way.

John sighed.  
"I can't have you throwing up on everything."

"Throwing up?" Lestrade asked.

"No!" Sherlock insisted.

"He's had sporadic migraines. I told him to take his medicine and he ignored me and he got sick last night."

Sherlock cursed under his breath and took the tablets in defeat. He sighed.

"The pictures were on a website I saw sometime last month. A week or two before I lost my...before the incident. I don't remember where and I don't remember what site it was. Something John was looking at. I would go through the internet history but I have used his computer by then and deleted the history. Didn't think John would appreciate pictures of ruptured organs on his home page."

John swallowed.  
"Yeah. Thanks mate."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.  
"Alright. I'll give you time to remember. Umm...Anderson has been busy working on those fingerprints. He also found a bit of pollen if that helps with some sort of deduction of yours."

Sherlock's blind eyes widened.  
"What kind of pollen?"

Lestrade bit his lip.  
"I'm not sure. I'll ask him."

He leaned over and pressed a button on his desk phone.  
"Anderson! Front and center!"

78 paces later, footsteps approached the door.

"Sorry sir. I was bust working on-...Oh no."

Sherlock continued to pace, using his lack of vision to his advantage and not bothering to notice Anderson's presence.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Anderson whined.

"I called him in. Do you have a problem with that?" Lestrade asked.

Anderson sneered, pushing his reading glasses further up onto his crooked nose.  
"No."

"Good. Now he had a question about the pollen that you found on those pictures."

Sherlock sighed, forcing himself to stop pacing and face Anderson's direction. He planned on asking as nicely as possible.  
"To tell you the truth, I must first congratulate you! You found something useful! But, then again, you are very used to seeing dust. Like the dust on your treadmill. Gained five pounds by the sound of it. Footsteps are a bit heavier than normal. How's the wife by the way?"

Anderson rolled his eyes and turned to Lestrade.  
"Can't you make him go on medical leave? Working is a lot easier without him here!"

Lestrade shook his head.  
"Sherlock...mind your manners. Anderson...what kind of pollen did you find?"

Anderson crossed his arms.  
"Dandelion and grass pollen."

Sherlock nodded.  
"That narrows it down a bit."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"How?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began pacing again, faster.  
"Dandelions are wild. For them to be in the yard indicated either bad gardeners or vacancy of the homeowner. The house would have to be vacant for at least three days if not more."

Anderson rolled his eyes.  
"An abandoned house? Like the one the pictures were found in?"

Sherlock growled.  
"No. Too obvious. Besides, no dandelions on that lawn or anywhere around that house. The landkeeper made sure of that. Now please stop being so revolting. I am extremely ill and you are making me nauseous."

John cleared his throat.  
"Sherlock, why don't you sit down?" he suggested.

Sherlock shook his head.  
"It was a figure of speech, John. Any luck on the fingerprints?"

Anderson cleared his throat.  
"Not yet. Still searching for that."

Lestrade nodded.  
"Yes. Well...back to work. I want some of those papers in by midnight!"

Anderson nodded and left, but not before Sherlock sneered at him.

Lestrade sighed.  
"Alright. Well...I don't have anything else for you. You're welcome to stay and work here if you want-"

"No thank you. I need to think."

"Alright. Fine with me. I'll call you in when I need you."

"Yes. Alright. Thank you."

* * *

Within minutes upon their arrival at the flat, Sherlock was lying on the couch with three nicotine patches in his left arm while John was on the phone with Mycroft.

"What did _he_ want?" Sherlock asked bitterly after John hung up.

John sighed and put the phone down.  
"Don't get angry with me, he's dropping by to deliver some paper."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"Why?"

"Because the week is over, Sherlock. My decision has been made."

The elder Holmes brother stood in the doorway, umbrella at his side, a folder in his hands.

"How are you, John?" Mycroft shook his hand.

John cleared his throat.  
"Ahem...fine. And...yourself?"

Mycroft smiled.  
"Busy as always, dear John, but content none the less. Now, Sherlock-"

"Why must you _insist_ on bothering me when I am working, Mycroft?" Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock.  
"Hmmm. Another three patch problem, I see."

"Yes, and you've cheated on your diet. Thank you for stating the obvious."

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock spat.

Mycroft smiled.  
"Only dropping off some papers."

"Papers? Files? Cases? Please try and be more specific as I cannot read them myself."

Mycroft looked over at John.  
"Actually, if all goes to plan, you can."

Sherlock thought it over and quickly made a deduction.  
"I'm not learning it."

"It is this or therapy. Or medicine. Or rehabilitation, but you wouldn't want to go back there, now would you?"

John raised an eyebrow.  
"_'Back there'?_"

The Holmes brothers ignore him.

"It is ridiculous! I am not wasting precious time trying to learn Braille when I have a case that needs my attention!"

Mycroft swallowed.  
"Think about it. If you do not start the program in the next three days I will put you in rehab and call mother. So I suggest you get started. Soon." he turned to John and his attitude completely changed from dark and demanding to light and friendly. "Goodbye, John. Goodbye, brother. Get well."

Mycroft shut the door behind him.

Sherlock growled and put his hands over his eyes.  
"Never let him in this flat again."

John picked up the papers from the coffee table, examining them.

"What are they exactly?" Sherlock asked as he could not see them.

John shrugged.  
"They're blank right now."

Or at least most of them were. Two or three had names of websites and people written in Mycroft's posh government handwriting. One was a note to John in the same writing;

_"I doubt he will have any interest in learning. I am terribly sorry for any trouble you may have. Call me if he gets out of hand._

_-Mycroft Holmes."_

But John was not going to read these things to him.  
His stomach growled. He was beginning to feel peckish.

"You hungry? I could whip up some toast? Pancakes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away from John, blanket covering his face eclipsing him from reality.

John rolled his eyes and pulled out his laptop.  
"I'll take that as a 'no'."

* * *

**AN/ I have been trying to re-edit these for a while. Again, sorry for any confusion!  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Terribly sorry for the delay, had a bit of writers block this time. But, at last, here is is!  
Thank you all who have favorited, followed and a big thank you to all who reviewed!**

**NOTICE; I have re-edited this! Only minor details, nothing plot related! If you have read this before, I am sorry for any confusion!**

**Disclaimer; Ownership belongs to BBC, Moffat/Gatiss and Doyle, not me.**

* * *

oOoOoOo**  
**

* * *

"Sherlock? Where did you put the coffee filters?"

John looked everywhere around the kitchen to find them but they seemed to have disappeared and he was in desperate need for caffeine. He had stayed up all night due to Sherlock's loud pacing. Well, _stomping_ would be a better word. Not to mention the random screaming when he ran into the coffee table and other various objects because he couldn't see where he was going. And if that wasn't enough to keep him from having a full nights sleep, the rhythmic marching and sudden cries of pain brought him back to the battle field; the stomping and screaming made him have a war dream, waking him up.

"Sherlock, are you going to answer me?"

Sherlock was sitting in the couch, staring blankly at the open violin case on the coffee table.  
He was debating again.  
It had been two weeks now. Two weeks since the incident. And every day this past week he has sat and stared at his violin, never once picking it up. John knew by the way that his blind eyes stared that he wanted to play. So why wouldn't he?

"Um..." John was going to question him about it; curiosity was nagging at his brain. But he knew better than to pry.  
"Uh...where are the coffee filters?"

Sherlock inhaled and shut the case.  
_  
BANG._

"I burned them." he exhaled heavily, like when a smoker releases the fumes from their lungs. He must have been craving again.

"Seriously? Oh, gosh, _Sherlock,_" John complained, using his name like a mother would when scolding her child. He sighed.  
"...Let me guess, it was an experiment?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sank back into the couch, pulling his dressing gown over his legs.

"...Bored." was the only word John could understand in all of the mumbling.

John scoffed.  
"So you ruin perfectly good coffee filters. That makes perfect sense. I think I understand now!" He exclaimed sarcastically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and tightened into a ball, closing his blind eyes and focusing on listening to whatever horribly acted soap opera Mrs. Hudson had been watching on the telly.

He has not been called in for work since his last dispute with Anderson about the pollen the other day. He has been rather upset about this fact, but John wouldn't let him go out for a couple of days. His eyes were making things unbearable. John had to help him to the toilet yesterday as he felt too in pain to stand by himself. He then proceeded to lean over it and throw up a little bit. Just the tea he had an hour beforehand. That reminded him. He had to go to Tesco. He had wanted to try some home remedy's for Sherlock's migraines and he had to pick up dinner.

"Sherlock?" he asked, putting his mug on the newspaper at the table.

Sherlock only groaned in response.

"Um...I'm gonna go to the store."

Sherlock sat in silence as if he couldn't hear him.

"Is that alright with you? Or should I ask Mrs. Hudson to pick up-"

"It's fine. Go."

Sherlock turning away from John and the television, hiding his face in the couch, hands folded under his chin. John couldn't tell if it was another migraine or just Thinking Time. He decided to warn Mrs. Hudson of his absence and Sherlock's possible migraine before he left.

He practically ran through Tesco's, not wanting to stay in this horrid shopping market for very long. Something about this place didn't like him. And he didn't like it either. He quickly got all the fixings for a nice homemade vegetable soup (hoping the smell of warm comforting food would get Sherlock to eat) and checked out, hopping into a cab and making it back to the flat. The entire trip had not taken but thirty minutes. But when he walked into the door Mrs. Hudson stopped him before he could go up the stairs.

"The poor dear...I went to check on him when I found him moaning. He's gotten sick again. I was about to call you." she said, the look on her face that of a worried mother.

John raised an eyebrow.  
"When you say sick...?"

"I tried giving him his medicine. He refused it and told me off. He doesn't feel well, sweetie. Another headache."

John nodded and hopped up the stairs.  
"Thank you. I've got him. Don't worry."

He opened the flat door to find Sherlock in the same position as he left him, only now he was curled tighter around himself for protection and the curtains were closed. Mrs. Hudson must have done this from habit. John put the bags of canned goods away and went over to him.

"You've still neglected taking your medicines."

Sherlock shook his head.  
"I get headaches all the time." he reminded the doctor. _Again._

John ran a hand through his dirty blond hair.  
"I understand that you are used to pain. But these pills also help with nausea."

Sherlock shook his head.  
"If you are talking about yesterday, I'm perfectly fine. It's not happened since-"

"But you could have prevented it if you had taken your medicine-"

Sherlock sat up and glared in John's direction.  
"I am _perfectly fine_. I would prefer you did not continue to bother me, _I need to think!_"

When his small fit was over he plopped back down on the couch.

John growled. He could not stand this anymore. He stood and got Sherlock's prescription medication, letting two capsules fall into his hand. He got a glass of water and walked back over.

"Sherlock, take these."

Sherlock, still turned away from John, shook his head.

John sighed and grabbed his hand, dropping the pills in the younger man's palm.

Sherlock turned around, sat up, put the pills on his tongue, swallowed them with a sip of water and laid back down all within three seconds.

John swallowed.  
"Thank you."

Sherlock groaned a response.

"Don't really understand why that was so hard." John murmured under his breath  
as he plopped on the chair and flipped through the telly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood to his feet, walking along the side of the wall and going to his room.

John sighed, keeping the telly on the news channel. He was about to go make the dinner he had bought when the smoke alarm started blaring.

He could smell burning paper coming from Sherlock's room.

Coffee filters.

"Aw, Really? _Sherlock_!"

* * *

oOoOoOo

* * *

Sherlock was pacing again, yelping slightly when his shin hit the edge of the coffee table.

John was on his computer, blogging.  
"If you are going to keep hurting yourself, just stop."

Sherlock rolled the sleeves of his purple shirt up, rubbing the two nicotine patches on his arm.

"I'm fine-Ow!" he growled.

He settled for sitting in the chair, head in his hands as he thought about his case.

John continued blogging.

_**I didn't understand why Sherlock continued to bother about his case. It wasn't 'interesting' for his usual standards and I would expect the average person to be in such a mentally traumatized state in his condition that they would not care. But he seemed adamant in finding his bomber. He wanted the person who did this to him behind bars-**_

"Wouldn't really mind if he were _dead_, actually. Bars don't tend to hold them back when they are _this_ persistent." Sherlock muttered.

John sighed.  
"You're listening to my typing again, aren't you?"

Sherlock shrugged.  
"It's not my fault you type slowly. It's like you _want_ me to hear it."

John sighed.  
"Hey, wait–what do you mean persistent? He only bombed one house...?" John's uncertainty made it a question.

Sherlock reached into his pockets and pulled out his phone.

"I got a text. Possibly a client. Could be Mycroft, but those chances are low. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs and has no cellphone, so Lestrade it is. Urgent by the sound of it. "

John took the phone from his spider-like fingers and opened the text.

**From; DI Lestrade**

Wow. He was spot on.

_[Need him. ASAP. PLEASE get him to come.]_

**[I will. Coming soon. Location? -SH]**

_[Police Car will bring you. Don't worry about it.]_

John cleared his throat.  
"Um...you were right. Lestrade needs you. He's coming to pick you up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"I hate riding in police vehicles." He mumbled as he grabbed his coat.

John sighed and grabbed his coat as well, hoping this mood didn't get any worse.

* * *

"Oi! Sherlock! John! Over here!"

Lestrade called them over to...whatever location this was. Sherlock didn't know. He couldn't read the text nor see where the police car took them. But it was supposedly a crime scene. Gosh, he loved those. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as John led him by the arm (Sherlock blushing slightly) and helped him under the police tape and directly in front of Lestrade.

"What is it this time?" Sherlock asked, unable to hide the smirk on his face. He had been so bored all week. Gosh, he missed this so badly that it hurt!

Lestrade sighed.  
"Another bomb job. Don't worry. We are checking the floors _and_ walls _and _ceilings for bombs as well as the rest of the building.

"_Building_?" Sherlock asked, turning as if to look at the scene.

"Yeah. Some sort of internet website company organization...thing."

John swallowed.  
"How many people are in there?"

Lestrade shook his head.  
"We've purposefully set off the fire alarm two hours ago so people would leave. As far as we know, we got 'em all out."

John sighed, relaxing some.  
"Good."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"I texted you about the pictures yesterday, you never answered. How are the results?"

Lestrade cleared his throat.  
"Well, this is where it gets weird-"

"You mean interesting."

"Yes, well...same thing. But some of those finger prints belonged to Agatha Garret."

"Wait, the previous owner? The _dead_ previous owner?" John asked, scratching his ear.

Lestrade nodded.  
"Apparently. It was the name that popped up."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He could see it. The pictures. They were definitely put up within that week. How could they have been there for three years without gathering dust?

"How is that possible? It can't be." John muttered.

Sherlock shook his head, growling frustratedly at the idiots around him.  
"No. No, no. You lot think of the impossible-"

"Because it _does_ seem rather impossible. The woman _is_ dead."

"It's not _impossible!_ It's just _unexplained!_" Sherlock growled.

John rolled his eyes. Of course. This was just another puzzle. Another riddle to solve. Lives were at stake. People have died. Sherlock had been injured. This was no mere game.

"How could they have been the owners, Sherlock? Unless she is alive somewhere an hiding in her old house when she decided to blow it up I don't see how-"

"_Please_ don't be an idiot John, Scotland Yard already has those in abundance. The bomber and the house trespasser are not the same person." Sherlock informed him with an annoyed sigh.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.  
"What? You never told me _that_."

_"How can you people not see these things? Are we all blind?"_

Sherlock growled again and started beating his fist against his side. A sign of impatience and annoyance. And probably anger. John let him take a deep breath and calm down before he asked;

"How did you know that?"

Sherlock scoffed.  
"The bomber was _smart_! Smarter than_ you lot!_ Obviously smart enough to hide all his bombs from an entire highly trained bomb squad! He would never make a stupid mistake and leave a few blasted pictures behind!"

Sherlock was obviously upset, but John didn't know what had set him off on this explosive episode. This wasn't his normal '_Everyone is an idiot_' episode. Perhaps it would be best if they just went home. _No no no,_ John warned himself, _the last time he was forced from a crime scene he hyperventilated and you punched a paramedic. We don't need a repeat. Contain the chaos. Don't add to it._

John touched Sherlock's hand; Sherlock's pale fingers were cold in the freezing air. This touch was comfort. Reassurance of his presence. That despite his current condition and the glares he was unknowingly receiving everything was going to be alright.

"Sherlock...OK. We understand. The bomber had nothing to do with the pictures-"

"Why on Earth is _HE_ here?"

Ah great. Donovan. Things just got ten times worse.

"Sally, please do not get in the way. _Real_ detectives are trying to _work_." Sherlock spat, venom covering each word.

Donovan opened her mouth to tell him off when Lestrade shouted;

"Sherlock! Shut up and get over here! Anderson! Donovan! What did we talk about?"

Donovan quickly pursed her lips and glared at Sherlock with utmost hate.  
"You better have a good reason to be here, _F__reak_. I thought you'd gone on medical leave."

Anderson muttered rather harsh words under his breath.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, hands balled into tight fists.  
"Anderson, if you _must_ insult me don't be a coward. At least have the courtesy to do it to my face. Like Sally here for example."

"Oh yeah? How would _you_ know I was in your face?" Anderson taunted.

"Boys, stop." John muttered, holding Sherlock's wrist to hold him back at the same time Lestrade shouted;

"_Not now, you lot! Sherlock! Get over here!_"

John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him aside.

"Sherlock-"

"I am perfectly fine John, mind the relentlessly _dimwitted_ _morons_ I am forced to work with. Just let me inside." Sherlock muttered angrily.

"Sherlock-"

Anderson rolled his eyes.  
"Well, are you two just going to stand there, hand in hand, chatting like little school girls? Or can the freak not stand being away from his seeing eye dog long enough to help us civilized people?"

John quickly let go off Sherlock's wrist and there was a loud crunch, followed by a groan of pain and John's panting. Judging by the moan of Anderson coming from the ground, John had just punched him in the nose.

Sherlock swallowed, fists still clenched tightly.

"I am genuinely upset I did not get to do that myself. Though I have to say, I am impressed John." despite his mood, he actually smiled just a teensy bit.

"Thank you." John rolled his eyes, shaking the sting of the blow off of his knuckles.

"_Boys! Enough!_ Anderson, get a tissue! Sherlock, John, Donovan, come with me!" Lestrade called out as Donovan handed him a pair of gloves, rolling her eyes at the scene.

"Routine check's over. We're clean. Watch your step, _Freak_."

Sherlock growled angrily and fought off the urge to lash out and hit something. Perhaps Anderson. He still needed a good beating.

Lestrade handed them all gloves and they made their way into the building where Donovan led them back into one of the work cubicles.

"Most of what they found was circled around this cubicle. They've checked ev'rythin' they can think of. Even floors. It should be safe."

John rolled his eyes.  
"Yeah. That's what they said last time."

Sherlock began feeling around for things, identifying them with touch.

_A stapler. A legal pad. A ballpoint ink pen. A stress squeeze ball._

_Pen, legal pad - take notes with, write down phone numbers, etc._

_Squeeze ball - stressful coworkers/customers. Long hours._

"This is some sort of working office. They sell something. What is it?"

Lestrade looked around.  
"I believe they sell paper. Some sort of computer commercial company...stuff."

Sherlock nodded and silently continued his examination.

_Cheap wooden desk, company bought = a large amount of workers._

He opened the drawer of the desk and felt around the insides.

_A letter opener, paper, shoelaces, bottle caps and..._

"What are these?" Sherlock asked, pulling John over for use of his eyes.

John raised an eyebrow and looked down.

"Lestrade! Get an evidence bag!"

* * *

"More photos." Lestrade confirmed as he dropped the evidence bag onto his desk before sitting in his chair.  
Sherlock was pacing in the open space to his left and John was sitting in front of him.

"Describe them to me." Sherlock asked, hands folded under his chin as he paced.

John picked them up.

"Another woman's eye. Um...hazel. Another picture of that building, that theater. Exact copies of those violins. Um...a picture of a girl–No, sorry, a woman. She's a very _young _woman...probably 20 at most...dark red hair, pale skin, brown eyes. A picture of a house. The abandoned house. The one with the bomb in it-"

"Yes, I get it! Thank you!" Sherlock spat, still not exactly in a good mood.

Lestrade sighed.  
"Sherlock, that's all we have. Maybe you should go home-"

"No, I'm fine." Sherlock insisted, still pacing.  
"Why would he bomb a commercial paper company?" he asked himself, pulling his hands through his hair.

John licked his lips.  
"There were a lot of workers. Maybe an angry customer or coworker wanted to get back at the company-"

"No no, _NO!_ The bomb was located at that _specific_ cubicle. Whoever bombed the house bombed that cubicle because of those pictures. The trespasser from the house worked in that office. That's _obvious_."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"How did you-What do the pictures mean then?"

"I don't know yet! She was looking for a woman, probably a friend or a relative-"

"_She_?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock stopped pacing and gave him and John a blind death glare.

"_How? How do you people not see?_" he muttered through his teeth. "How do you look right past the obvious? The stress squeeze ball was too small for a mans hand, she had a letter opener so she would not ruin her longer fingernails, ..._the paper on her desk was scented for crying out loud!_ Are you _all_ idiots?"

"You do tend to say we are. I'm sure it's not without reason." John mumbled sarcastically.

The detective picked up the photos and put them in front of his face, trying to force his blind blue-grey eyes to see them. He ended up giving himself a headache and putting them back on the desk.

"Why don't y'take a breather, Sherlock? Take a few days off. I'm sure nothin' interesting will happen while you're away on break and if it does I promise to call you."

Sherlock did not like this idea for one second, seeing if he went home he would be completely, utterly, _painfully_ bored out of his genius mind. But it seemed he had no choice anymore. Lestrade was done for the day and John was tugging his sleeve.

"He's right. You need a break."

Sherlock, feeling like a child being told to leave the Warden's office, complied without a word, feeling he had no choice.  
Gosh, he hated that feeling.

* * *

oOoOoOo

* * *

Sherlock stared blankly at his violin until the next morning when John woke up and walked out of Sherlock's room. If John insisted in being ridiculous and sleeping on the first floor he was not going to sleep on the couch. Sherlock let him use his room for the night instead. Sherlock had no immediate plans on using the bed anyway. He was too busy thinking to care about sleep.

Why had Lestrade not called? He was going to ask himself why the forensics team was taking so long finding prints on the new set of pictures or perhaps some more news on the pollen before he remembered that they were being run by _Anderson the idiot._ He wouldn't be surprised if it took a whole year before they found a match.

He could smell coffee from downstairs as John opened the door to leave. Mrs. Hudson was making coffee. He inhaled heavily, breathing in the smell as if it were heaven, wishing it were nicotine.

Gosh, he was so bored. His cravings worsened when he was bored. He hated to admit it, but he was also hungry. He hated that John took it upon himself to make sure he ate. In all truth, he had totally forgotten about food. He was too busy working to remember. He ate dinner last night. He was fine for now. Right now he wanted work more than anything.  
He clawed at his eyes, hoping for this medication to kick in soon so he could think properly. Every time John gave him his migraine pills they failed to work. He needed something different. And fast. John said to try these for a little while just to get used to them, but after many days and multiple doses nothing had changed. John was out now, remedying this fact.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, John opened the door and put some bags down, putting the groceries away and putting the kettle on.

"You survived my absence then. Medicine kick in yet?"

Sherlock put his arm over his eyes.  
"No."

John sighed and reached into a paper bag, pulling out a small cardboard box.

"I've got prescription meds. _Again_. Hopefully this will work. Move your arm and open your eyes."

Sherlock, confused, did as the doctor ordered. John opened the tiny box and took the medicine out, leaning over the detective, who immediately recoiled.

"What are you doing?"

John sighed .  
"Relax. Trust me. Hold still, I've got something that might work."

Sherlock relaxed some but remained completely still, unsure of what John was about to do.

He could feel John lean over his face and lightly touch his eyelids, keeping them open. A small drop of liquid fell onto his pupil and his eye immediately felt numb and a great deal of the pain was gone. He did it to the other one as well.

"Eyedrops," John confirmed Sherlock's suspicions, "They are slightly numbing. It might not help for very long-"

Sherlock shook his head and opened his eyes again, waiting for John to drip more medicine into them.  
"Again." he gestured towards his eyes.

John smiled, glad that his friend was no longer in pain, and did another round of drops.

Sherlock sighed in relief and put his arm back over his eyes.

Ah, sweet relief. He could think in peace now. He folded his hands under his chin and tried his best to focus on his breathing and brainwork. Boring. He reached for the coffee table and grabbed his box of patches, pulling one out and sticking it on his arm. Finally, some normality. He needed this. He inhaled, massaging the patch into his arm. He could still smell the coffee downstairs. He wanted some but was too busy to get up.

"Coffee?"

John, who was about to sit in his favorite chair, stopped suddenly and sighed, making his way to the kitchen.  
Why did he volunteer to torture himself for this lazy blind man? Oh, yeah. Because he was his best friend. Way to go, John. Make friends with a madman. You won't have to do a thing! Just his laundry. And you have to remind him to eat. And cook his food for him. Oh, and chase criminals. John sighed. No matter what crap Sherlock put him through, John would always be there to make sure that Sherlock made it through. He grabbed two mugs and poured some freshly brewed coffee into them, handing one to Sherlock and sipping the other as he sat down in the chair.

"Lestrade called you today. What did he say?"

John raised an eyebrow, astonished that Sherlock dare interrupt Thinking Time for something as petty as talking. Also, he was shocked that he knew Lestrade called him.

"How did you-"

"Please, John. You've lived with me for how long now and you don't think I know when you are lying?"

John sighed.  
"Technically, that wasn't lying. I would have had to tell you something that wasn't true."

"You hid something from me and tried hiding it. I take that as a lie. Now...What did he say?" Sherlock asked as he sipped his coffee.

John ran a hand through his blond military cut hair.  
"He just wanted to know how you were doing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
Ok, he still knew that he was lying. _Gosh_, _why did he have to know everything?_

"He wanted to know if you were stable enough to work on this case."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"What? Of course. Just because I get a headache from time to time and cannot see where I am going does not mean my deduction skills have lessened-"

John shifted awkwardly in his chair.  
"No. He wanted to know...he wanted to know whether or not you were stable enough...on an..._emotional_ level...to work on a case where _you_ are the victim."

Sherlock sat up.  
"Emotional? John, I, unlike most, know better than to emotionalize my work-"

"He was just asking...because you did get pretty cross the other day. And you've not been the happiest around the flat."

Sherlock shook his head in denial.  
"I am perfectly fit to continue work for this case."

John nodded.  
"I know, but...I...alright. Yes. Fine."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"Did _you_ mean for me to stop working on the case? Is it bothering _you_?"

John shook his head.  
"No. No, I'm fine."

Sherlock tilted his head.  
"I am not traumatized."

"Yeah, I know."

"You think I am."

"I know you are, but you are you and nothing I say will change your mind."

"You have a point."

Sherlock sat back in his chair and clawed at his eyes, rubbing his eyelids until they turned red.

John rolled his eyes.  
"How long ago did you take your meds exactly?"

"Two hours."

John nodded.  
"Give your body time to get used to it. It'll kick in."

"I'm _fine, _John_._"

John sighed and put his head in his hands.  
"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

* * *

That night Mrs. Hudson offered to make them dinner. This was perfect. Sherlock was bored out of his mind and John was sore from work, not having enough energy to cook a proper meal and not having the money for takeout. But then Mrs. Hudson volunteered to make them a nice pasta dinner. It was official; Mrs. Hudson was a Godsend. John finally had time to sit down with Sherlock at the coffee table and practice his mandatory braille with him (Again. They had tried this once before, resulting in two frustrated flatmates and a fat lot of burning paper.) He had Sherlock go over his alphabet while he had a quick word with Mrs. Hudson.

"Seriously, thank you for this. I don't know what I could do without you."

Mrs. Hudson smiled.  
"It's no problem, dearie. I should do it more often actually. He needs to eat more. And it is always nice to sit down to a family dinner."

John smiled._ Family dinner._ He knew family dinners as horrid things, fighting and yelling and crying, full of feuds with Harriet and Clara-Well, now just Harry. To think of this as family dinner was something special to him.

"Alright. I'll leave you to it. Thank you. So much." he kissed her cheek, not unlike he would for his mother.

"Anytime, dearie, Anytime. Now go on. I think poor Sherlock is getting flustered."

John raised an eyebrow and looked back at Sherlock. He was picking up the papers one by one and crumpling them into wads, throwing them behind his shoulder and behind the couch.

John hurried over.  
"_Oi! What are you doing? Stop it!_ I spent half an hour yesterday typing these out for you!"

He moved the papers out from Sherlock's reach and put them back in their folder.

"They were all the same." Sherlock mumbled, pulling at his hair.

John picked up the wads of paper and tried his best to flatten them.  
"Great. I'm going to have to reprint these. Again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, putting his head in his hands.  
"What good does it do anyway?" he mumbled.

He rubbed his left eye and applied pressure, sighing in relief.

John noticed.  
"When is the last time you had pills?"

Sherlock growled.  
"Eyedrops are more efficient. Pills are useless."

John stood and went into the cabinet and grabbed the bottle and a glass of water.

"Use the drops too often and the effects will wear off quickly. We still have to try these pills too. Drink up."

Sherlock opened the bottle and let two capsules fall into his palm, swallowing them and chugging the glass of water.

John smiled.  
"There. All better. Now let's practice this the right way."

John pulled out one of the uncrumpled sheets of paper and laid it on the table–_thank goodness he made copies._

"Start at the top. It's the alphabet, so it's in alphabetical order-"

"I know how it works." Sherlock snapped, not unlike a hot-tempered child being told to clean his room.

John cleared his throat.  
"Alright. Now there are some three letter words on the very bottom. After you go over your alphabet a few times you can try some of those, alright?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he ran his finger across the top of the paper. He would _murder_ Mycroft for this. This was completely unnecessary. A complete waste of his precious time.

Mrs. Hudson rushed over, carrying trays of delicious smelling food.  
"Sorry boys. Gotta set this down. Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Sherlock smiled and threw the paper behind him.  
"Not at all."

John rolled his eyes and picked the paper up.  
"It looks delicious, Mrs Hudson."

She smiled.  
"Thanks. You want some, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head.  
"I'm fine, thank you. I have work that needs my attention-"

"Go ahead and get him some." John informed her.

Mrs. Hudson shrugged and put some rice on a plate for him and put it in front of his elbow.  
"What about you, John?"

John nodded, putting the folder of Braille papers under Sherlock's desk.  
"Yes, please. I'm starving."

They sat down around the coffee table and ate their dinner, managing a small decent chat. Sherlock actually ate a few bites of food before playing with it like a child.

Afterwards, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had tea while John volunteered to clean both his and Mrs. Hudson's dishes.

"Are you sure, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked she put a sugar in Sherlock's cup and stirred it.

John scoffed, elbow deep in dirty dish water.  
"It's nothing. Could you help Sherlock with reading for a little bit? I'll be done in a mo."

"Yes, alright. Let's see what we can do, how's that sound dear?"

John could hear Mrs. Hudson muttering to Sherlock as he scrubbed the dishes and wiped the counters. By the time he dried the dishes and put them away Sherlock was on his third piece of paper. Whatever Mrs. Hudson was doing seemed to be working.  
She looked up and started to stand.

"You wanna?" she mouthed, pointing at the papers.

John shook his head.  
"Keep going!" he mouthed back, thankful that Sherlock couldn't see their conversation. He ran downstairs and cleaned Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, only hoping he didn't hear any loud noises from upstairs.

She practiced with him for well over an hour before he got so frustrated that he threw the papers down and stormed off (as fast as he could without his cane) into his room, leaving Mrs. Hudson nearly in tears at the insults he was cursing at himself and his brother.

John walked Mrs. Hudson downstairs to her flat, where she reassured him she was fine. There was a loud _BANG_ from up the stairs and he heard Sherlock swear loudly. John ran upstairs and looked around to find that Sherlock sitting in his room, nursing his hand while there happened to be a dent in the wall, right outside the bedroom. Great. He is punching walls now.  
Sherlock's hand did not appear to be broken or bleeding, so John left him to himself.  
He sat down for a cuppa when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

**Incoming call; DI Lestrade**

**Answer (-) ignore**

John sighed and pressed; **Answer**

"Hello?"

"Need him. Now. You need a ride?"

John sighed. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't be so mopey.  
"No. It's fine. We'll get a cab. Be there soon."

"Alright. Thank you."

John shoved his phone in his pocket and opened one of the desk drawers (it being a temporary hiding place) and pulled out his gun, putting it in the back of his trousers and grabbing his coat.

"Sherlock? Lestrade-"

"Called you. Yes, John. I heard. I'm a blind man not a deaf man." Sherlock scoffed, already wearing his coat and sliding on his gloves.

John cleared his throat.  
"Yeah...um...you got money for a cab?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he walked right past him, cane in his hands, making his way down the stairs.

John sighed and grabbed his wallet.  
"I suppose I'm buying then."

* * *

They arrived at Scotland Yard and made their way to Lestrade's office, careful to pass the desks as they made their way to the correct door where Lestrade and his officers were waiting.

"There you are. Ok. We've got stuff for ya. Anderson? Would you do the honours?"

Anderson sneered and Donovan shared a similar look of disgust.

"It's not exactly an honour, talkin' to _HIM_." Donovan mumbled under her breath.

"Donovan..." Lestrade warned.

Anderson stepped forward, nose a bit swollen from the last time he opened his mouth and chose the wrong words.  
He started speaking in his annoying, nasally voice;

"According to the list of employees, the name of the worker in the cubicle is Lara McMillan. But according to her work records she has been missing for two weeks."

"Around the same time the house was bombed." Sherlock realized, speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Well, yes," Anderson continued, scowl still plastered on his face, "But unfortunately no records of a Lara McMillan exist. No fingerprints, no birth certificate, nothing. "

John raised an eyebrow.  
"So we have a name but nothing to go on?"

Lestrade cleared his throat.  
"Unfortunately, yes. We've searched everything we can and nothing has popped up. We don't even know how old she was and none of her coworkers knew her personally. Didn't even remember her name. It's like she doesn't even exist!"

"Shhhh! Shut up, I'm thinking!" Sherlock growled, pressing his fingers to his temples.  
"What connects her and Agatha Garret? Anything?_"_

Lestrade shook his head.  
"Sorry Sherlock. Nothing connects them as far as we can tell."

"No, there has to be something. Something I've missed-"

Donovan muttered "Freak," under her breath.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed in the general direction of the two angrily muttering officers.  
"_Out! You two get out!_"

Donovan raised an eyebrow.  
"What? Inspector Lestrade calls you in and suddenly you own the entirety of Scotland Yard? We work here! We can do what we like."

Lestrade rolled his eyes.  
"Donovan! Sherlock, what-"

"I _need_ them to leave! I cannot think when there is too much stupidity in the room!"

Donovan scoffed.  
"Is that the best you could come up with? Calling us stupid? You should try a little harder next time, _Freak._"

Sherlock scowled.  
"And why would I want to waste precious braincells thinking of you? I have a headache as it is and your presence is turning it into a migraine, so I suggest you leave before I lash out in pain and start cursing real insults at you!"

Sally and Anderson both scowled before walking out the door and Sherlock sat down in a chair, head in his hands.

"Why does none of this make any sense? Why is it all just endless riddles? _WHY CAN'T I SOLVE ANYTHING?_"

Lestrade sighed.  
"Ok, look. Y'going through a tough time, Sherlock. We understand that. Everybody has rough patches, days where nothing gets done-"

"This is different, you do not understand. I am entirely worthless without my sight and, ironically enough, it is the one thing I currently lack! I just...need more time to think."

Lestrade sighed.  
"Alright. If you get anything new then give me a call or come down. I find something new, I'll call you. There's a file on my desk if you want it-"

"Yes, thank you. Good night." Sherlock grabbed it and turned to leave. John rolled his eyes and followed the distressed detective.

* * *

John and Sherlock climbed into the cab. Thankfully the rain had stopped and they no longer had to run to safety.

John cleared his throat and addressed the cabby.  
"221 B Baker street please-"

"Actually, pay him no mind. Please go to the London Eye." Sherlock quickly interrupted.

John looked over at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

"Wha-Sherlock? I though we-...why do you want to go there?"

Sherlock turned to face John with pleading eyes, not unlike what he would do when he could see.

"I have some legwork that needs doing. I assumed you would accompany me."

John looked at Sherlock's face. His eyes were almost meeting his, a clear gaze obstructing his vision, pupils a bit larger than normal as his eyes tried harder to see.

John sighed.  
"Don't have to ask me twice. London Eye it is then."

The cab drove them to the end of the street, right outside the gigantic wheel.

"Thank you." John mumbled to the cabby as he handed him the money.  
He turned to the blind man, who was sniffing of the air and listening to the sounds of busy London.

"Why did they have a picture of this, John?"

He had his eyes closed, breathing in the smell of rain, listening intently to the traffic, all his other senses making up for the lack of vision.

John shrugged.  
"I don't know."

Sherlock opened his eyes and started forward, cane out in front of him, blindly making his way towards the wheel.

* * *

Two hours later they had walked everywhere, talked to everyone, John describing every possible clue aloud for the blind detective all to no avail.

"We'll look for the website. We'll find it, Sherlock."

Sherlock was leaning against the side of their return cab, on their way back home.  
He drew in a long, deep breath through his nostrils and let it out quickly, breath fogging the glass window. John sighed.  
Nothing he looked up, nowhere they went, nothing he could describe would be enough for Sherlock. His sight was the only thing he wanted.

* * *

_Reviews help me through writers block, so feel free to leave one!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry to keep you all waiting! Hope you like it!  
**

**Disclaimer; I do not own anything.  
**

* * *

The trip to the London Eye had done nothing, if not enrage Sherlock more. The trip to Big Ben the proceeding day was just as uneventful, if not worse. John was using every spare moment he could searching for those photos on the Internet, trying to find some sort of clue. He tried in vain.

He sighed and closed his laptop, rubbing his eyes and yawning widely.  
"Alright. That's it. I'm done in for the night. Can I trust you enough that I can sleep in my own room without you sneaking out on me?" He felt weird in Sherlock's room. It was just...not right. And he had this creepy feeling that Mycroft was watching him or something.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"Where would I go?" he asked bitterly, still sulking about his case, case this, case that, it was all he ever talked about anymore. Why is his work so much more important than his health? Did he even think twice about that?

John signed and ran a hand through his hair.  
"I don't know. Just...mother-henning I suppose. G'night."

He could hear John walk up the stairs as he turned to lay flat in his back, hands underneath his chin as he breathed deeply, as if attempting to suck all the oxygen out of the room. It wasn't like he had anything else to do. He exhaled and sighed, bored completely out of his mind.

_Lara McMillan, no records, looking for her friend and/or relative, one of the two, but what was the violin? Was she searching for the violin as well? Did woman in photos steal the violi-Ah, no. If they had stolen the violin then there would have been a notification of stolen property in the police files under Lara's name. Was the woman she was looking for a violinist? Perhaps. Taken into consideration. Mental note - have John look up violinist. __Dandelion pollens. Could have come from anywhere. But odds are pollen from yard/garden. Pictures of sunflowers. A painting, Van Gogh, painted 1888, oil on canvas, artist committed suicide-_ No, no, no! Getting sidetracked! Focus! _Also a photo of someone's yard flowers. Obviously not a field flower. Gravel in background. Definitely a yard. Same yard as dandelions? Possible. What have they got to do with a missing woman, Lara McMillan, and woman who has been dead for three years, Agatha Garret?_

He was picturing the photos in his mind when suddenly his vision swirled from blackness to colour. It caught him by surprise, but he welcomed it with interest. So many different colours, he had not seen them in so long, it was so relieving. Grey. Or was it black and white? Yes. A pattern. Fleur de Lis. And a dash of yellow. A smiley face. Black suits. Pink phones. Tan. Tan and soft, made of yarn. White teeth, John's smile. Purple, Mrs. Hudson. More grey, gunmetal, silver hair, Lestrade. Blue, Aquamarine. Too much. Too much blue. A pool.

He opened his eyes. He didn't remember falling asleep, but it was so hard to tell in a world of pure darkness.  
The colors were gone.

John's footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs.  
"G'mornin'..." he slurred.

Sherlock growled. Thinking time must have lasted all night then. But 'good morning' would not have been the words he would have used.

John yawned and poured himself some coffee and picked up a scone from a packet Mrs. Hudson had left out for them.

Sherlock quickly retreated to his Mind Palace, enraged by what his current state had brought him to. Falling asleep in his Mind Palace? He had never fallen asleep like that on a case before. The waste of time made him angry.

"You hungry?" John interrupted his already wayward thoughts.

He tried to ignore John, but found that he couldn't. Why couldn't he get his mind in the right place? He took a deep breath and attempted to close all the open doors of his Mind Palace. There was far too much noise in his mind now. He needed his thoughts to clear so he could go back and focus on-

"Sherlock?"

"What?!" he snapped.

John gulped.  
"I just...um...I asked you a question."

Sherlock growled.  
"I am aware of that. Why can't you stay quiet for ten minutes?"

"Um...I asked if you were hungry-"

"No." Sherlock announced flatly.

"-Around an hour ago."

Sherlock quickly shut his jaw. An _hour?_ Time went by differently in his mind. It felt like mere seconds. What was wrong with him? His brain was rotting. He could feel it.

"I, um...no. I need to work. Please do not bother me."

John nodded.  
"Um...OK. Yeah, fine..."

He raised an eyebrow as he turned, leaving Sherlock alone in the living room to think for the rest of the night, completely undisturbed.

* * *

oOo

* * *

Sherlock pressed his palms against his eyes as he sank further into the couch. John tried to give him some medicine (some sort of muscle relaxer; his pain pills had completely stopped working) twenty minutes ago, but he refused to take it. It made him drowsy and slowed his motor skills, making proper brain function ten times harder than normal. But considering the amount of pain he was in now he wished he had accepted the medicine. John would go ballistic if he knew that. He pried his hands away from his eyes and folded them under his chin as his mind began flickering with buzzing thoughts and possible situations regarding his case and ideas for new experiments and cords to violin concertos and-

His hands had somehow moved to his eyes again against his will. The pain was interrupting Thinking Time more than John's annoying mother hen syndrome (_Are you alright? Eat something. You're looking a bit pale. Do you need anything? Are you still in pain? Are you sure you don't want to take your medicine?_) He forced his hands off of his eyes and down to his sides where they clenched into fists. It took him a moment to register that his fists tightened around some sort of fabric. John must have thrown a blanket over him, mistaking Thinking Time for sleep. He was in too much pain and too deep in thought to even bother noticing. He tightened his jaw and kept thinking.

Augh, but thinking hurt. Breathing hurt. _Existing_ hurt. He curled over to his side, hands in his hair.

Footsteps (_Slight limp, soft soles, attempting to step quietly = John. Of course it was John. Who else would be here?_) walked into the room, each tap of his feet on the floor feeling like a knife against his brain.

The army doctor carefully leaned over him and put a hand to Sherlock sweaty forehead, noting how visible the vein on his forehead was. His head must be pounding.

"Shh." Sherlock ordered. The older man was breathing too loudly in his ear. It was annoying.

John rolled his eyes, holding back the urge to say 'I told you so' and instead started rubbing the other mans shoulder.  
"If I give you medication now, would you throw it up?"

Sherlock growled even though John was barely even talking.  
"Probably."

John sighed.  
"I'm sorry. There's nothing else I can do. You're just going to have to wait this one out, see if it goes."

Sherlock let out a strangled groan of frustration as John stood and left, attempting (and failing) to do so quietly. Why was he being so loud?

He returned just as noisily with a damp cloth in hand. He laid it over Sherlock's eyes and retreated to Sherlock's room, attempting to give the man some well needed privacy. He knew Sherlock would never show his pain if he were with him.

With John away, Sherlock fought the urge to cry, to curl up on himself and let the tears that had been pricking his pounding eyes for the last half hour freely fall down his face. But he was Sherlock Holmes. He was stronger than a migraine. He could delete pain. Mind over matter. He could control it. Or at least he tried to...  
Not twenty minutes later was he curled in a ball, hand making its way from his forehead to his midsection, eyebrows scrunched together in anguish as he gripped the blankets and cushions until his knuckles went white. John had set a bin beside him in fear he would get sick, and to tell the truth, Sherlock was almost certain that he would. Nausea, it seemed, could not be deleted. He felt so dizzy and disoriented, he couldn't see and he was in pain, he couldn't think, he had never _not _been able to think before, oh so much pain, make it stop, please John make it stop-

"...John..." he moaned, so out of character. Why was he so desperate? He needed the doctor beside him just in case...in case of what, he didn't know.

John had appeared just in time for Sherlock to lean over the bin and get sick. Sherlock's head pounded harder with each heave and he felt he was definitely going to rip his eyes from their sockets as soon as possible in hopes that that would take the pain away. John was muttering in his ear, something along the lines of 'it's OK' and 'let it out'. The usual doctoring murmurs. Boring. He didn't even bother trying to listen.

After another bout of retching, his stomach was settled enough to sit back and John cleaned out the bin and returned with a glass of water.

"Alright. Sit up for me please." the doctor asked, trying to help pull the anguished man in an upright position.

Sherlock shook his head and fought against him, pressing down hard on his eyes, pain dissolving pain. He was breathing rather harshly, breath getting caught halfway down his throat.

Why wouldn't this go away? Sherlock didn't want anything, _anything_ but the pain to stop and his vision to return. He wanted to see. He wanted to see _anything_. He would even be satisfied with having to look at _Anderson_, he was that desperate. He moaned in frustration as John rubbed his back. He hated that it actually gave him a sense of comfort. He hated that he even needed to be comforted at all. Why did he have to be so...human? He hated it. Human weaknesses are a complete waste of time. He needed to be working. This was all just one big waste of time, a poorly timed inconvenience.

Part of his fogged brain noticed John was still muttering.

"Hey now, it's alright. Deep breath for me," he inhaled, exhaled, "Good. Now can you sit up for me please? Don't worry, I have the bin ready. That's it, take it easy, not so fast."

All the blood rushed to Sherlock's head and his nausea returned so quickly that he did not have time to stop himself from vomiting again.

John had hands everywhere, dotting Sherlock's face with a wet cloth, rubbing his back, running hands through his sweaty hair.

After the vomiting stopped Sherlock was left exhausted and in anguish. He wanted to sleep, which was out of character for him; he hated sleep and only slumbered as necessary. Why did he have to be so human right now? He hated every moment of this. He would never allow himself to be this human again as long as he lived.

John's muttering was far beyond annoying now. His touch was irritating and painful, and the sound of his whispering, even his breathing was grating at Sherlock's nerves. Everything was too loud, touch too sensitive, the pain in his head the worst he has ever felt in his life, obstructing every thought and replacing it with anguish and frustration at his own weakness and dependence on the army doctor. The doctor who was being far too loud.

He gripped whatever was in front of him until his hands turned white.  
"..Get out..."

John would have been taken aback by this if he has not expected it. Sherlock in pain was Sherlock annoyed. They were one in the same, and they needed to be treated the same; with tough love and patience.  
"Sherlock-"

"_Leave!_"

Sherlock winced as he raised his voice. He laid back down and curled into a ball, covering himself with the blankets.

"Just go...no noise..." he mumbled into the cushions, daggers in his eyes causing him to hold his head in just the right way to hit a pressure point in attempt to stop the pain.

John sighed sympathetically.  
"I'll be downstairs if you need me..."

He silently stood, making his way to the door, turning off all lights as he left. Sherlock may not be able to see it, but the bulbs made a soft buzz and Sherlock obviously insisted on no noise. John made his way down the stairs where Mrs. Hudson waited.

"What was with the shouting?" she asked as she walked him to her flat.

"It was nothing." He assured her as he sat in the kitchen and reached for a bread roll from a bowl of the center of the table.

"Are you two having a row? Is there something wrong?"

John sighed.  
"Just another headache, that's all."

"How is he now?" she poured some boiled water into a cup and added a tea bag.

John shook his head. A million words popped up in his head. Annoyed, stubborn, fed up, sick, blind, in pain and traumatized just being a few.  
"He's...Sherlock."

Mrs Hudson nodded and sat down, passing John a cuppa and sipping from her own.  
"Oh, dear...is he going to make it?"

John rolled his eyes.  
"Through the migraines, yes. But not if he dies of boredom first."

Mrs Hudson sighed.  
"The poor boy. I've got hot water bottles and cold compress if it helps any and I have plenty of muscle relaxers and pain meds all prescription of course. Bad hip."

John shrugged.  
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm not sure if it'd do any good. He refused the medicine you gave me and the compresses was no good."

Mrs Hudson sighed as she got up to do house chores.  
"Well...sorry dear. I'm going to clean up the place. Call if you need anything, hun."

John sighed and looked around. He was beginning to understand why Sherlock hated being bored. A ghost of a smile crept across his lips as he looked across the table and picked up the crossword.

* * *

An hour later and he raised an eyebrow as he looked at the paper in his hands.

It was finished. He had finished a crossword. It felt surprisingly...disappointing. He shrugged and decided to check in on Sherlock. Making sure he made no noise, he climbed up the stairs and turned on one lamp.

Sherlock was asleep, curled up in himself, the bin unused since he left. His jaw was tight in his sleep as his head still pained him. John went over and brushed the young mans hair out of his eyes, one finger trailing the sleeping detectives brilliant cheekbone. John sat and wondered how Sherlock was blessed with his good looks. He carefully put a hand to his forehead, checking his temperature. Though awfully clammy, his head was thankfully cool, pulse on his temple not nearly as strong as it was an hour ago. He placed a washcloth over his eyes and went upstairs, letting Sherlock sleep peacefully (and hopefully painlessly) the rest of the night.

* * *

The next morning Sherlock was irritable, but thankfully back to normal.

"Toast?" John asked as he poured tea into his military mug.

Sherlock grunted and continued to stare at his violin case.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." John rolled his eyes and poured himself a cuppa.  
He got two plates and handed one to the blind man.

"How's your head?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swallowed.  
"Fine." He was speaking in clipped words in a very annoyed tone, rubbing his eyes again.

John sighed and got his eyedrops.  
"Do you want to do them or should I?"

Sherlock nodded and laid his head back.

John rolled his eyes again (could this man not do anything for himself?) and walked over, opening the tiny bottle and squeezing two drops into the blind man's eyes. Sherlock sighed in relief. His eyes watered so badly because of the drops it looked as if he were crying. It was an odd sight. But John knew better.

"Any luck then?"

Sherlock wiped his cheeks and raised a brow.  
"Hmmm?"

"With your case, I mean. You were thinking about it for a whole twenty four hours before that migraine started."

Both of Sherlock's brows went up.  
"Twenty four hours? What day is it?"

John cleared his throat. Sherlock always did have trouble keeping time.  
"It's Saturday, Sherlock."

"Really?"

John nodded.  
"Yeah. Unfortunately I've got work today."

Sherlock sighed and sank into the couch. He needed some time alone, to work. He started Thinking Time right away, hoping that it would not be interrupted by another migraine.

A few minutes later John was dressed and ready to go.  
"I'm leaving. I'll be back later for dinner."

John should have known better than to expect a reply.  
He sighed.

"Don't die while I'm gone." he called out as he left.

* * *

oOOo

* * *

_"Dr. Watson, you are needed in room 31."_

John sighed and hit his intercom button.  
"On my way."

He walked out of his office and down the hall, stopping to check the chart of room 31 before walking in the room. Hmmm. Empty folder. Where had the paperwork gone? He opened the door and sighed when he saw who waited on the other side.

Mycroft.

"Seriously, you're meeting me at work now? You need to find a different hobby besides kidnapping me on weekends."

Mycroft chuckled.  
"Your sense of humor never fails to be amusing, John. However, this is a matter concerning my brother and therefor a matter of importance."

John rolled his eyes and shut the door behind him.  
"This better be good. You've got fifteen minutes until they notice I'm missing."

Mycroft smiled.  
"I can assure you that your superiors are well aware of your location and are understanding enough to give you as much time as we need in here."

"Should have known you had the entirety of England wrapped around your finger. So what's this about then?"

"As I've said before, this matter is directed around my brother." he leaned against his umbrella.

John nodded.  
"Yeah. Yeah, you said that. What about him?"

This is where Mycroft frowned.  
"I know that he had a terrible migraine last night..."

"Yeah. Why would you care about that?"

"You think I do not care if my brother spent the night in intense pain?"

"Obviously you don't mind enough to visit or take care of him. Tell me, where were _you_ when he was leaning over my lap, puking his guts out? Or, I don't know, when he was curled into a ball on the sofa, moaning in pain? I didn't see _you_ dotting the sweat off his forehead. I didn't hear _you_ tell him he was going to be OK."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed some and he actually looked ashamed. John notes how both Holmes boys had the same guilt face.  
"I am sorry. But I can assure you I was not idle in trying to end my brothers anguish. Besides, I was assured no matter what the ailment, he was in the best medical care England had to offer. It seems _you_ are the only doctor he trusts to care for him."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"What do you mean 'not idle'? What were you doing?"

Mycroft swallowed.  
"I was finding a way to end my brothers pain and hopefully, if all goes according to plan, restore his eyesight."

"Wait...what?" John gasped. "How?"

Mycroft licked his lips.  
"Exactly how long did the doctors say his recovery would take?" he avoided the doctors question.

"A month."

"And how much sight has he recovered in the past three weeks?"

"None. None at all." John did not like where this was going.

Mycroft sighed.  
"John, I'm sure you have begun to doubt my brothers natural recovery already. I can see it in your eyes."

"Yeah, Ok, where are you going with this?" John asked. He was tired of puzzles, tired of drama, he just wanted to go home and sleep.

"I've been searching nonstop these past 48 hours for an optometrist. Specifically one who practices optometric surgery."

John froze for a moment as he allowed these words to sink in.  
"Wait, you want Sherlock to have corrective surgery? You know he won't let you. He doesn't want that."

"And how would you know?"

"Because he doesn't even want me to bloody take care of him when he has a fever! Why on earth would he let some random person perform corrective eye surgery on him?"

"Because I directed them to." Mycroft answered.

John swallowed.  
"...What do you mean?"

"You know very well what I am implying."

_This is insane!_ John thought,_ these brothers are going to kill each other one day, and then kill me!_  
"You would never force something like that on him!"

"If it is necessary and for the better of his well being, then yes."

"No, you wouldn't because I wouldn't _let_ you!" John shouted, beyond cross.

"Rest assured, John, it is only a last resort."

John sighed and fought against his rising blood pressure. One thing he really hated about his PTSD was the outbursts of rage the Holmes brother brought out of him.

"Unless you'd rather him continue this daily suffering, possibly for the rest of his life?" Mycroft suggested.

John shook his head.  
"I..I..." what was he supposed to say? "...I'll...I'll keep it in mind."

Mycroft nodded.  
"Good. I will wait three more weeks and if there is no change I will contact you with the details then, agreed? Very well. I will no longer waste your time. Go on, doctor. I will speak with you later."

"Oh, yeah. Looking forward to it." John muttered sarcastically as he left the room.

* * *

By the time he returned he was exhausted. Work at the surgery was hectic. An overabundance of patients, so many different ailments, not to mention the screaming child that cried nonstop for an hour over a scrapped knee rather than the ear infection he was brought in for. And he couldn't get Mycroft's...Threat? Suggestion? Offer?...out of his head. John came home tired and stressed, only to remember that yet another patient, one that needed more attention than the any of the others, was waiting for him on the couch. He dropped his medical bag on the lamp table and slipped off his shoes, sighing as his aching bare feet touched the wooden floor.

"No."

John looked up to see Sherlock, apparently unmoved from his position on the couch, with two patches on his arm.  
He raised an eyebrow.  
"'No' what?"

Sherlock swallowed.  
"You had asked me earlier if I was getting anywhere with my case...my answer was no..."

"Oh...OK."

He swallowed and sat in awkward silence for a moment.

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson announced her presence in her usual cheerful manner.

"Sorry I'm late, Mrs. Hudson." John apologized as he took off his coat and sipped his house shoes on.

"No problem, dear," she assured him, making her way to the kitchen, "Me and Sherlock didn't hardly do anything but sit around all day."

"Bet that was fun." John muttered.

Mrs. Hudson noted his sarcastic, annoyed tone. She lowered her voice and leaned forward to whisper;  
"What's wrong?"

John shrugged and walked off to head upstairs.  
"It's...nothing, Mrs. H. Nothing I can't handle."

He mumbled 'Good Night' to Sherlock and climbed up the stairs to his bedroom.

Mrs. Hudson followed.  
"Honey, I'm no Sherlock, but you're limping. I know something's bothering you. What is wrong?"

John sighed.  
"It's..."

"You can tell me anything, dear." she assured him with a pat on the back.

John bit his lip.  
"What are we going to do about this? About his condition?"

Mrs. Hudson shrugged.  
"I really don't know."

John put his head in his hands.  
"I mean, he's getting migraines. That's supposed to be a good sign, a sign of recovery. But...he's not recovered any sight and..."

It was supposed to be getting better. Yet things seemed to be getting worse. Mycroft was right; John was beginning to question whether or not Sherlock's vision would return at all.

"...I...I just don't know how to handle this."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a loose hug.  
"Cheer up sweetie. He'll be back in the mischief making business in no time."

John looked up at her painfully and whispered.  
"He hasn't played since it happened. He stares at that bloody violin everyday but never picks it up."

Mrs. Hudson blinked the tears from her eyes.

John sighed.  
"I can't figure out if he's depressed or traumatized or both. But he wouldn't do anything about it if he was. He makes me feel like a lost cause as a doctor."

Mrs. Hudson sighed.  
"I don't know what to tell you, sweetie."

John sighed and leaned back into the couch.  
"I...I...I need sleep. Can't function enough without it and Sherlock needs me..."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and handed him a blanket.  
"Get some rest, young man. I need you both chipper tomorrow. Can't stand all this gloom."

John smiled halfheartedly.  
"Night Mrs. Hudson."

He turned over in his bed and almost instantly fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

**Review?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer; I do not own anything.**

**First I must formally apologise for being so late on updating. So here it goes...I'M SO SORRY!**  
**I have been so busy writing and editing and Holidays that I forgot to post!**

**Also, may I just say that I am fully aware that this probably sucks and I'm very, very sorry. I've been trying to edit it and get rid of any and all errors, but I got fed up and just decided to post it. I'm not fully satisfied with it, but I won't keep you waiting. Please forgive me.**

**But I do plan on re-editing the entire fic when I'm finished. But for now, here it is!**

* * *

"Try it again."

Sherlock frowned and pushed the indented papers aside.

John shoved them back his way.  
"Sherlock..." he warned in his 'military voice'.

Sherlock growled and ran his finger over the little bumps on the paper.  
"_'Cat?'_"

John sighed. The word was _'lips'_.  
"No."

He collected the papers and put them back in their binder and hid it under Sherlock's desk so he wouldn't find them later and tear them apart and/or burn them again.

"You're not even trying anymore." he accused.

Sherlock scowled.  
"I know how to read."

"Evidently not Braille."

"I don't need it!" Sherlock insisted.

John sighed and ran a hand through his short blonde hair.  
"Your brother told you; it was either this or therapy of some sort. You're lucky you got off easy with this! Goodness only knows what you would have been if you were forced through therapy! Besides, doctors say this is actually a good coping technique. They say it helps you come to terms with your condition, however long it lasts-"

"It's coming back." Sherlock murmured defiantly.

John sighed and put his head in his hands.  
"It's been _a month_, Sherlock."

A month. A month of treatments, migraines, pills, eye drops and unwanted sympathy and yet his eyesight was still at a 0%. It was supposed to be over by now. Sherlock was completely enraged. And worst of all, he had developed a new symptom; denial. John tried to be optimistic, but the odds were slowly turning against him.

"I'm not learning Braille without reason when I could be working in my case-"

"It's not without reason, Sherlock. It's because you need to learn how to read. We don't know how long this is going to last now. So you may as well try and get used to it."

"No!" Sherlock snapped. He couldn't take this any more! "I am not someone who is willing to have other people lead me down the street when I want to go out! I am not someone who is satisfied with listening to descriptions of things I could see myself! What kind of detective is _BLIND?_"

John sighed.  
"For now, you."

Though he knew John didn't mean it as an insult, Sherlock scowled and stood to his feet, grabbing that bloody cane he hated so much and walking to the door.

John followed him.  
"You can't just leave, Sherlock!"

"Can't I?"

He closed the door in John's face.

* * *

oOoOo

* * *

Sherlock made his way through Saint Bart's, keeping his cane in front of him.

Molly Hooper ran into him coming out of the doorway.

"Oh! Sherlock! Didn't see you there! Um...sorry," she picked his cane off of the floor along with the papers that had been in her hands. She raised an eyebrow as she passed the cane back to him.

"Have you been sneaking evidence again?" she asked flirtatiously.

Sherlock frowned.  
"No."

Molly looked at Sherlock, eyebrow raised. She had known be had been caught in a bombing. But he was supposed to be uninjured. Using a cane, the scowl on his face, the way his eyes looked right past her. Well, in a different way than usual. Most of the time he just looks past her to ignore her. But he looks more like he can't see at all...and his pupils...  
She quickly put two and two together.

"Oh...gosh. I am so, so sorry."

Sherlock but his lip angrily, reminded yet again of his condition, the one thing he came here to escape from.

"You wanna go to the lab? Usual chair?" Molly asked, attempting to change subject.

Sherlock nodded.  
"Yes please." he held out his elbow and allowed Molly to hook her arm awkwardly around his and she politely led him to where he wanted to go.

She helped him to a stool and he sat down.  
"Do you...do you need anything? I would be happy to give it to you."

"Coffee. Black, two sugars."

"Yes. Yes...Alright."

Sherlock sat there in the cold of the room, feeling around the desk for his usual microscope. He couldn't find anything but slides. He rolled his eyes. It's not like he could see them anyway.

He could smell coffee. Molly had returned.  
"Here you go." she handed him the coffee and sat down in the seat beside him.

He thanked her and took the coffee, the cup warming his fingertips.

Molly cleared her throat and tucked her hair behind her ear.  
"So...if you don't mind me asking—I don't want to be rude or anything; just curious...what—Um...what are you doing here?"

Sherlock sipped his coffee, the warmth feeling good on his throat.  
"I came here to investigate a case. _MY_ case, I suppose. I need to find my bomber."

Molly sighed.  
"I'm sorry. I can't help you there. No other reports of bombings or bomb victims in the past month. There usually isn't much of a body to left to perform a proper autopsy when it comes to bombing. Oh, gosh...that's horrible...I'm so stupid...sorry. But...you may be interested in what I'm working on-"

Sherlock stood to his feet.  
"Show me."

* * *

"Dead violinist. Lilith Angelina. Poor woman. Died of an undetected growth in her brain. Bruising on the right side of her neck. She was talented. Came in a few weeks ago. Her chart said that she had family waiting for the body. We waited and waited for family or friends to claim the body and bury it, but apparently no takers. She had a donor card and we checked her organs and then her paperwork got lost, so we kept her here a bit longer than usual. We were about to send her off when I thought you would be interested."

Molly saw Sherlock's face light up when she said this.  
"Violinist?" he asked.

Molly nodded as she zipped the body bag closed.  
"Mmm-hmm. She died right after playing her last show. Beautiful piece. You, um, told me you play the violin...or at least you mentioned it once before..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"Yes...?"

Molly tucked her hair behind her ear.  
"Well...um...I was wondering..."

Sherlock was terribly Impatient.  
"Yes?"

Molly swallowed.  
"Yes. Um...I don't know much about music but...she had a lot of calluses...she practiced a lot...and according to her website she had excellent skill. She was a professional. She has a few demo's and I know you like music-"

Sherlock sighed.  
"Are you going to let me hear it or not?"

Molly froze for a moment.  
"Oh. Oh! Yes! Yes, of course!"

She pulled out a laptop and looked up the victim's name.

After a few clicks of the mouse, silence fell. But then, after a few moments, the most beautiful music filled the room. It flowed rhythmically in Sherlock's ears, circling and bouncing off the walls. His fingers moved to the notes he was hearing, playing along with the song with his arms at his sides.

"What was her name again?" Sherlock asked after the demo was finished.

Molly looked down at the chart on the table.  
"Lilith Angelina." she spelled it out for him.

Sherlock nodded.  
"Thank you Molly. This is exactly what I needed."

He took his cane an stood to his feet, smiling once Molly's way.

"Should I...do you need me to walk you out? Well, you got in here on your own I'm sure your perfectly capable of going out on your own...but would you like it if I went with you? I've got some time left before my break ends." Molly suggested.

Sherlock shook his head.  
"No. I need you to finish your work. I have things to do. Goodnight, Molly."

He smiled as he shut the door behind himself.

Molly waved and smiled. But when he left she frowned and pulled out her bagged lunch and did her best to speed eat, trying to make up lost time from her break and preparing to work once more.

* * *

Sherlock slowly made his way up the stairs and opened the door to flat 221B.

John was inside, sitting by the fireplace, phone to his ear. His leg was starting to ache as he tapped it against the floor in worry and impatience.  
And then he heard Sherlock's footsteps pass behind his chair.

"Sherlock!" he called out, trying to get his attention. Sherlock paid him no mind and continued to walk off.

John rolled his eyes and stood, following after him.  
"Sherlock!"

He stood in the doorway, arms at his sides, hands clenched into fist.  
"Where the bloody heck did you go?"

Sherlock smiled, taking off his scarf.  
"Where else? I met Molly at Bart's."

John sighed and scratched his ear.  
"You couldn't have at least told me? I was about to call Lestrade when you came in!"

Sherlock scoffed.  
"Please John. I may be a blind man but I am not a child."

John pulled a hand through his hair.  
"That doesn't mean you have the right to storm out. You had me worried."

Sherlock took off his gloves and his coat and hung them on the back of his door, allowing John to guiding him back into the living room.  
"I was, and am, perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

John swallowed.  
"Just...Don't do that again. You almost gave me a heart attack."

Sherlock sighed, sitting down in front of the fireplace, staring at his violin.  
"Your concern is flattering but unnecessary. Now please stop mother henning me. It's rather annoying."

John rolled his eyes and sat down in the chair opposite to him, watching as Sherlock pulled out his violin case and say it on his lap.

There were moments when John almost swore Sherlock was definitely going to pick it up this time, but he never did.

* * *

oOoOo

* * *

It was another day of stress at the clinic and John had been sent home early. Between sitting awkwardly in a chair on the computer all night, uselessly searching for those blasted pictures _again_, and working all day at the surgery, his back felt like it might break and shatter into a billion pieces if he leaned over. He walked up the stairs, stopping to moan at each one, when he heard the music.

Violin music.

Sherlock had finally picked up that instrument.  
John practically ran up the rest of the stairs and opened the door to find Sherlock standing beside the window as if looking out at the street below, violin at his chin. It truly was a beautiful melody, but it seemed sad and depressing.

"What brought this on?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled, his eyes closed as he stroked his violin.  
"I can see."

John gasped.  
"_What?_"

"It's only 10%, give or take. But I can see."

It was official. He could see his hand in front of his face. His eyes couldn't focus on anything yet. It was all just a blur of grey and black, so it did not count as actually seeing, but it was _something_. It wasn't..._nothing._

"That...That's..._Wow_...Um...Sherlock..."

John was in shock. Sherlock was finally recovering. But now his odds were slowly turning against him.

"Um...you...you mind if I..?"

Sherlock put his violin down momentarily.  
"Please do."

John grabbed his medical bag and walked over as his friends eyelids split open.

In between the blackness that bound his eyes there was a tiny spot of grey that seemed to be moving. It was mostly colours and shapes.

"Can you see that?" John asked as he slowly waved his hand in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock's light blue-green eyes followed the movement ever so slightly.

Sherlock nodded.  
"Yes."

John watched his friend's pupils reaction to his penlight and tested his reaction time to snapping.  
"Alright. Well...this is good news! But you seriously need to go to the doctor. You need to be properly re-examined. I don't have everything I need to test you here. I'm afraid optometry is not my specialty."

Sherlock scowled.  
"I'm busy."

John scoffed.  
"Doing what?"

Sherlock picked up his violin again and began playing the same melody, over and over.  
"Thinking."

John raised an eyebrow. He must really be in a good mood.  
"What are you working on? I could help."

Sherlock sighed, striking the strings back and forth, back and forth, the melody unwinding at his fingertips.  
"Lilith Angelina."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"OK. And who might that be?"

Sherlock was focused on the music.  
"A woman..."

John rolled his eyes.  
"I think I understood that much."

Sherlock's fingers stopped suddenly, eyes snapping open with a mostly-blind death glare.  
"She's a woman. A woman Molly brought to my attention last night."

John nodded. Must be a victim. Molly rarely associated herself with living people, so much so that her social skills were nearing the level of Sherlock's.  
"How did she die?"

Sherlock took a cloth and stroked his horsehair bow clean.  
"Brain failure."

John picked up the chart on the table.  
"Brain failure? Why are you investigating a natural causes case?"

"Something is wrong. Off."

John raised an eyebrow as he read the rest of the chart.

A musician. _That would make sense_, John thought to himself.  
Age: 20. _Gosh. She was so young._

He looked down to see footnotes scribbled in Molly's handwriting (or at least he thought it was Molly, for whoever wrote this used a magenta ink pen and had a really girly font)

_Died of abnormal enlargement in the left side of the brain. No medical records of any types of problems in her medical history chart. Probably undetected. A lot of bruises and marks around the right hand side of her neck, formed at least 24 hours before death. The more I look at it the stranger it seems._

_You left your riding crop in the morgue again last time you came. I'll be here if you want to pick it up_

_Molly XO_

John (Thankful to be reassured of Molly's handwriting) licked his lips and scratched his ear. 'Undetected'. That would make sense. But what about the bruises? Definitely odd.

"Do you need me to read this out to you?"

Sherlock nodded.  
"Yes. That would help."

John cleared his throat.  
"Um...apparently some sort of enlargement and bleeding in brain, discovered postmortem."

Sherlock grunted in reply.

"Um...twenty years old, no bad health, no nothing. Very into her work. Calluses on her right hand-"

"Yes. It comes from being a violinist." Sherlock mumbled, mostly to himself as he rubbed his fingers together as if proving his point.

John raised an eyebrow.  
"Uh-huh. Well...there were some sort of bruises on the right side of the neck-"

"Bruises on the side did the neck, formed at least 24 hours before death, probably caused by the neck rest of her violin. By why would she put her violin on her shoulder hard enough to give herself a bruise?"

John cleared his throat and scratched his ear.  
"Have you already read this?"

Was his sight that good already?

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his curls.  
"More or less. Molly read some of it to me. Mrs. Hudson read some out loud under her breath."

John raised an eyebrow.  
"Well, that's all. Oh, and you left your riding crop at the morgue last time you went."

Sherlock nodded.  
"Hmmm? Sure. Sounds nice."

"Are you even listening to me anymore?"

"Just tea, thanks."

John nodded and put the papers down on the coffee table.  
"Yeah. Alright. Well, call me when you need a pen or something. I'm taking a nap. I need some shut eye."

He walked silently to his room, hoping to at least get half an hours sleep.

* * *

**AN/Yeah, still not satisfied with this. Sorry.  
Will put up next chapter soon!**


End file.
